


A Warmer Love

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Emma (1996), Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Multi, Regency Romance, some subject matter which would never ever be in a Jane Austen novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: The charming village of Highbury was always quiet, even for less connected residents like Miss Amanda Smith, natural daughter of somebody, or young Arthur Stuart, apprentice to Mr. Perry the apothecary.  As those two met on Christmas Day during Miss Smith's illness, neither of them could have guessed the upheavals their lives would soon see with the return of Mr. Weston's estranged son, Curt Wild, and the unexpected friend who would soon follow him to Highbury...With the most abject apologies to Jane Austen, in general and specifically for some of the highly improper things I have introduced into her orderly and proper world.(Relationships are listed in the tags in order of appearance, not importance or duration.  Knowledge of the plot of the novel is to a certain extent expected, but hopefully not completely necessary.)
Relationships: Arthur Stuart/Curt Wild, Brian Slade/Curt Wild, Brian Slade/Mandy Slade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



> All "Emma" roles should be thought of in their 1996 movie appearances with one major and one minor exception, both of which I will spell out in the notes when they make their first appearance. (Overall, the casting is what makes the 1996 adaptation such a tragedy: with those two exceptions, the cast was just about perfect, and yet they were given such a horrible script to work with! I would love to see the film that would have resulted from a combination of that cast and a good script.) There are some events from the book which were omitted by the movie and which I have restored, or at least referenced...and in one very important scene the movie's version was such utter garbage that I threw it out and used the original version from the novel. ;)
> 
> I have endeavored to use period-appropriate language in this fic (right down to the way many compound words were not fully compounded yet, not to mention one place name with a rather different spelling), but I have doubtless made mistakes, either in period or dialect, so if you happen to notice inappropriately modern or American language, please let me know so I can fix it!
> 
> One last note, I figured that Regency England would not go for "Mandy" as a nickname, and thus went with "Amanda" instead.

Arthur was doing his best to help his master pack his medical kit up yet again while simultaneously ignoring the man’s complaints and gently responding to them with the appropriate “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir,” or “As you say, Mr. Perry.” He was no more eager to walk through the bitter, frozen night than his master was, but he didn’t see any point in whinging on about it. What illness was going to wait until after the weather warmed, what disease recognised Christmas to leave people be on that one day of the year?

The job was hardly done before the bell sounded again. Arthur watched his master uncomfortably as Mrs. Perry went to answer the door herself, since the maid was too occupied in the kitchen. She came in a moment later, followed by the manservant from Mrs. Goddard’s school. “Begging your pardon, sir,” the servant said, “but Mrs. Goddard begs you to come back and tend to Miss Smith. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”

Mr. Perry sighed. “Miss Smith’s cold, while it may seem quite severe, is a matter which I can do little about. She will be quite all right with a little rest. I have another, far more urgent call I must answer.”

“Her fever has gotten terribly worse,” the servant insisted.

“Should I take her some additional medicine?” Arthur suggested. Mrs. Goddard’s school may have been further to walk, but it was far less oppressive an atmosphere once he got there. And perhaps there would be a little of their Christmas dinner left over; he hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast.

“Yes, perhaps so.” Mr. Perry went to one of the shelves on the wall and plucked down several bottles, placing them in a smaller bag than his own. “These should do for a fever, a chill, a cough and any attendant soreness.”

Arthur nodded, and accepted the bag. “I will do my best to tend to her as well as you would yourself, sir.”

Mr. Perry nodded with a blank expression that said he did not actually care. Arthur couldn’t be sure if it was that his master had no interest in the fate of Miss Amanda Smith, or if he merely refused to pay any serious attention to anything Arthur said. As he left the Perry household with the Goddard servant, Arthur had to reflect that it was probably  _ both _ , really. Despite her recent intimacy at Hartfield, no one treated Miss Smith with any respect in Highbury, though Arthur couldn’t imagine why. She seemed like a perfectly nice young lady, friendly and vivacious, if not terribly bright.

When they finally arrived at Mrs. Goddard’s school, Arthur was led directly in through the kitchen door. He wasted no time in leaving his bag on the table and his coat with the kitchen maid and making his way straight to the fire to warm up. The school was not further from Mr. Perry’s home in the central region of the village than many of the finer homes just outside the village (indeed it was closer than Donwell Abbey), but the road there was dreadfully exposed to the wind, and Arthur felt chilled to the bone. Still and all, at least the snow had left off about noon, so he hadn’t been plunging through a curtain of the stuff.

Mrs. Goddard herself soon arrived in the kitchen, and looked around with dismay before turning to her servant. “Surely you have not failed to bring Mr. Perry?”

“Mr. Perry had another call to make, a most pressing illness,” Arthur told her. “I have come in his place.”

“Miss Smith needs the apothecary’s attention, not that of his serving boy.”

Arthur drew himself up to his full height, stepping closer to the table. “Mrs. Goddard, I am Mr. Perry’s apprentice, not his servant. He has fully trained me in every basic of medical care, and in many of the most detailed specifics of daily needs. I am well qualified and competent to tend to Miss Smith’s fever.” Mrs. Goddard’s look of distrust, even of disgust, was so compelling that Arthur could not fall silent. “And I am not a boy; I want only a few weeks before I will be seventeen years of age.”

Mrs. Goddard was clearly not impressed by the advancement of Arthur’s years, and only shook her head. “Very well, but I will not allow a young man like yourself to be alone with a young lady, particularly one in no condition to defend her honour.”

Arthur did his best to smile. “Of course,” he said, despite how fervently he wished he could tell her that Miss Smith’s honour was in no danger from  _ him _ . “I should wish it no other way.”

Mrs. Goddard appeared satisfied by that, and preceded him out of the kitchen and through the halls and stairs of the house until she led him in to Miss Smith’s own chamber. The room was under lit and over heated. Even by the insufficient, claustrophobic light of the roaring fire under the mantel, Arthur could see that Miss Smith’s already fair skin was now positively wan, and that sweat poured down her face, sticking loose bits of her golden-red hair to the skin.

Arthur walked over to the side of the bed and attempted to greet Miss Smith, though she appeared to be entirely beyond hearing; it would not do to go about touching a young lady—even with a chaperon present!—without announcing your presence and intentions, after all. A quick check of her temperature and the furious beat of her pulse told Arthur that her illness was certainly worse than Mr. Perry had imagined. Still, Arthur had been well trained for such a common place illness, and he requested that servants be sent for a basin of cool water, and handkerchiefs that could be used to clean the sweat from Miss Smith’s brow.

With the aid of these servants, Arthur was able to give her a little medicine, despite that she would not wake from her swoon, and he had hope that it would soon revive her. However, his stomach would not cease its complaints, and he humbly asked permission to return to the kitchen for a bit of food while he waited to see if the medicine would do its work, explaining that he had accompanied Mr. Perry on so many visits to other patients that he had been without any nourishment all day. Mrs. Goddard protested that he might encounter her other innocent students—those who had no families to return to for the season—and refused to allow him the privilege, but did send a servant to fetch him some bread and a bit of warm soup. It was a paltry meal after spending nearly the whole day in an unintended and unexpected fast, but any food was better than none, and Arthur was appropriately grateful.

Arthur had long finished his soup by the time Miss Smith’s eyes slowly opened and roved all but unseeing across the room. “How are you feeling, Miss Smith?” Arthur asked, rising from his chair and moving closer to her bedside. “Has the medicine helped?”

She jumped quite terribly and gasped so deeply that she was overcome by a coughing fit. Plainly, she had not even observed his presence. She looked at him with wide, trembling eyes, but didn’t seem able to speak.

“My name is Arthur Stuart,” Arthur explained, as gently as he could. “I am Mr. Perry’s apprentice. Since he is tending to an elderly patient at terrible risk of death, he sent me to look to your own illness.”

Miss Smith laughed quietly. “Oh, so you are the one,” she said, giving him a look that felt far too piercing. “I have heard some of the students mention you.”

What should Mrs. Goddard’s students have to say about Arthur? He had never even met any of them! Seen them, perhaps, in passing on the streets, but what could that matter to them or him? Something about Miss Smith’s statement made Arthur’s skin crawl in a manner that he could not precisely define. “How is your throat?” he asked, to change the subject. “Is it any less sore?”

Miss Smith shook her head. “It feels quite rough and painful,” she admitted. “And I am feeling terribly light-headed.”

So was Arthur at present; too little food and too much tramping about in the snow. “Let me give you something for the soreness.” Carefully, he poured a single spoon’s worth of laudanum into a small glass, which he handed to Miss Smith. “Have a sip of that, and you should soon feel better. Just a sip—half of what is there, or less. You can take more later in the evening if you still need it.” In his experience, the less that was taken, the better. Particularly for someone of a frail constitution. Though Miss Smith hardly looked frail.

As Miss Smith lifted the glass towards her face, Arthur turned to ask Mrs. Goddard to send the servants to fetch some nourishment for Miss Smith to restore her spirits, only to find that the lady had dozed off as they had waited for Miss Smith to awaken. Admittedly, it was now most late—perhaps so late as to approach midnight—but what on Earth was Arthur to do now? It would have been most awfully rude to awaken her, surely…

Arthur was distracted from his concerns by another coughing fit from Miss Smith. It was so violent a fit, in fact, that he had to whisk the glass of medicine from her hand lest she spill what little of it was left. Thankfully, a pitcher of water and a tall glass rested near her bed, so he was able to provide it for her, assuring her that drinking it would surely help. Once her coughing began to subside, Arthur returned his attention to his bag, retrieving the medicine that was supposed to help with a cough. As he looked back at Miss Smith, he found her finishing the rest of the laudanum he had poured out earlier, a sight that made him wince. It was not that the amount was in any way dangerous, but as the physic suggested by Mr. Perry for a cough  _ also _ contained laudanum, it did worry Arthur a bit. If she should take too much while in her weakened condition, it seemed to him that it might affect her terribly. But as he knew no other remedy for a cough, what choice did he have? He poured out a small measure of the syrupy liquid, and bade Miss Smith drink it slowly. She obeyed without the least complaint, despite the bitterness of the concoction.

Returning his attention towards Mrs. Goddard, Arthur wondered if he should wake her. She had been seated on a fainting couch against the far wall, and seemed to be resting quite comfortably, but what was going to happen when she awoke? Her devotion to her students was legendary in Highbury, and Arthur feared what would happen if she felt he had become a threat to one of them during her incapacity. But no, Miss Smith was no longer a student, was she? The rumours in the village said she had finished her studies and had been given a position as a guest in Mrs. Goddard’s home. Did she have no home of her own to return to, no parents who wanted her back to be married off to the man of their choosing?

Within a very few minutes of drinking the medicine, Miss Smith let out a girlish giggle. “I feel ever so much better,” she announced.

Arthur frowned. “That euphoria comes from the laudanum,” he told Miss Smith. “It will pass quickly, and then your symptoms may reassert themselves.” More importantly, he had read that some people experienced trouble breathing when they took too much laudanum. If that should happen to Miss Smith because he had let her have too much, whatever happened to her would be his fault. “It is important for you to remain alert until then.”

“Oh?”

“I think it might be best if you were to be speaking,” Arthur told her. What faster method could alert him to any irregularity of breathing than if her speech were affected? Also, surely if they were conversing, that would gently rouse Mrs. Goddard in a natural manner that would not leave her suspecting Arthur of having any improper motivations. Or so he hoped.

Miss Smith leant back against the head of the bed a bit. “About what?”

Arthur was at some loss as to how to answer her, and found himself desperate to look away from Miss Smith’s earnestly questioning eyes even though he was quite sure he should not do so. “Ah…what ever you like, I suppose.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I am sure you must have heard much of interest in your time spent at Hartfield?” he suggested. That should surely set her off on some lengthy ramble. Though it was several months back, the whole village was still agossip over the wedding of Mr. Weston of Randalls to Miss Woodhouse’s former governess Miss Taylor, and how Mr. Weston’s estranged son did not even deign to come to the ceremony.

“I didn’t know you were interested in gossip!” Miss Smith exclaimed, with an almost giddy laugh. “Pity; I am sure I missed out on many things worth talking about at Mr. Weston’s party last night.” She sighed sadly. “I am just as glad, though.” Miss Smith paused, and cast an uncomfortable glance in Mrs. Goddard’s direction before looking back at Arthur. “Parties full of such gentle folk are no place for one of my sort,” she said, with a sorrow to her voice that felt forced, especially in light of the opium-born twinkle that still danced in her eyes. “Oh, but you know, I did hear something interesting the last time I was at Hartfield! Oh, but I suppose you heard it, too?”

“I have never been at Hartfield when you were there, Miss Smith.” He had often enough accompanied his master there to tend to Mr. Woodhouse’s numerous complaints, but rarely at the hours when the young lady of the house was receiving guests.

“Oh, yes, I know that, but Mr. Woodhouse was talking to Mr. Perry.”

“My master tells me very little that does not directly relate to my studies with him.” In fact, he seemed so very reluctant to speak to Arthur that sometimes Arthur wondered if he knew more than he was admitting to know.

That led to another most unbecoming giggle. Arthur was sure that meant the laudanum was still having a very strong effect on the young lady. “Well, then I suppose you have not heard the news from Colfax, then?”

Arthur bit his lip. “I am still relatively new to Highbury,” he admitted. “Colfax is the large manor on the other side of the village, away from Donwell Abbey, yes? The one that’s nearly as large as Hartfield?” It was not a house to which Mr. Perry had been called on any business that had required Arthur’s assistance, so he knew little of it apart from its name and general location.

“Yes, exactly right,” Miss Smith said, nodding with a pleased smile. “It belongs to the Whitakers,” she explained. “They are rather the second family in the parish after the Woodhouses, though you hardly hear of them any more. They only had the two children, and their son, Col. Whitaker, was killed in battle when I was still quite little. Their surviving child is a daughter who had already married out of town when her brother was killed, so now the Whitakers are all alone in that large manor.” She shook her head sadly. “Mr. Whitaker is well over sixty now, and Mrs. Whitaker must be nearly fifty, so as you may imagine they only rarely go out. Their daughter has invited them to come visit her in Scotland, from the spring right through the whole summer.” Miss Smith laughed. “Mr. Woodhouse has been trying to persuade them not to go ever since he heard of the idea, and failing to convince them, he was asking Mr. Perry to explain to them how dangerous travel is, and how very likely they would be to catch a chill all the way up in Scotland, even in the summer.”

“What part of Scotland does Mrs.—does the daughter of Mr. Whitaker live in?”

“You know, no one has mentioned that at all,” Miss Smith admitted. “It hardly matters. Miss Nash says that the Whitakers have agreed to let out Colfax for the summer to some wealthy someone, so they can hardly change their minds about visiting their daughter now.”

“Who would want to rent Colfax?” Arthur asked. “Surely there are more exciting places to procure temporary housing than such a quiet corner of Surrey.”

Miss Smith giggled again. “That is the intriguing question, isn’t it? Whoever it is, he must have reasons of his own for coming that have nothing to do with Colfax, since he has never been to see it.” She laughed outright. “ _ I _ think it is some fellow who has heard legends of the beauty and wisdom of Miss Emma Woodhouse and comes to court her. But you know, I doubt if he could ever succeed.”

“Oh?” Arthur could not honestly say he cared who or even if Miss Woodhouse married. He also highly doubted that anyone would bother speaking of her outside of Highbury; she might have been quite remarkable in this little village, but compared to all the society ladies in a large city like London, she was surely ranked as nothing at all. And she had never struck Arthur as being the least bit wise; she seemed as pointless and silly as all the other idle ladies of Highbury.

“Dear Emma has asserted to me that she intends never to marry,” Miss Smith said, lowering her voice to what was nearly a conspiratorial whisper.

“Oh has she?” An unusual intention, but hardly an interesting one. Still, Miss Smith had looked like she wanted a reaction, and her thrill of laughter proved how she had been waiting for his response.

“I do doubt she can keep to it, of course.” Miss Smith shook her head. “She will be beset with suitors long before she could become an old maid like Miss Bates. I know the Westons surely must expect she will marry Mr. Curt Wild.”

“Who is that?” Arthur couldn’t remember anyone named Wild among the social families of Highbury.

“Oh, that is Mr. Weston’s son,” Miss Smith told him, before launching into quite a lengthy tale of early marriages, family disapproval, young death, and removal to Yorkshire. “It seems to me quite hypocritical, adopting him so very thoroughly after repudiating his father, but Miss Woodhouse does not seem to think that his uncle acted wrongly.” She made a small noise, halfway between a laugh and a disgusted sigh. “In any event, Mr. Curt Wild is only two years older than Miss Woodhouse, so he is rather young to be marrying, but they are well-matched in age and fortune, and the Wild family would be a very prosperous connection for Miss Woodhouse to make. I think the whole village is expecting it, really. There was such a collective sigh of disappointment when he failed to attend his own father’s wedding.”

Arthur was about to try to form some kind of answer when he was interrupted by the sound of Mrs. Goddard snoring from behind him. He did his best not to laugh. “I am sure I can think of one who would object to the marriage,” he said.

“Other than Miss Woodhouse, you mean?” Another opium-induced giggle.

“I should think Mr. Woodhouse would not want to see his daughter leaving home and travelling all the way up to Yorkshire. He has complained bitterly to my master many times just of the sixteen miles between Hartfield and his ‘poor Isabella’ in London.”

“Well, that is true,” Miss Smith admitted. “Do you know, I could not help fantasizing when Emma admitted to me that she didn’t wish to marry,” she sighed. “I thought how beautiful it would be if neither she nor I ever married. If I were to live in Hartfield with her as if…” She stopped, and giggled again. “Will you think me the most monstrous and unnatural creature in the kingdom if I admit that I should rather be courted by Miss Emma Woodhouse than by every man in Highbury?”

“Of course not,” Arthur assured her. He was the last person who had any right to make judgements of that sort.

Miss Smith smiled widely, then sighed with a deep sorrow. “I am quite sure Miss Woodhouse would think I was. She seems quite desperate to force me into some marriage or other. Do you know, she is quite convinced that Mr. Elton is in love with me?”

“Mr. Elton?” Arthur repeated. “Unless you have great wealth and a fine family awaiting your return, I cannot imagine that. He has never once given a sermon on any of the passages of the Bible that praise poverty and the abandonment of wealth.” At least, not in any of the ones Arthur had managed to stay awake for. “And he always seems so eager to please the wealthy and important folk of the town.”

“He is also dreadfully dull, and a bit…how do I describe it?”

While Miss Smith was searching for the right words to explain her objection to Mr. Elton, Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. Goddard. The old woman was still most thoroughly asleep. Good; he did not want to be overheard saying such things. Thankfully, Miss Smith was probably too inebriated by the laudanum to remember anything that passed between them. “I should not wish to put words in your mouth,” Arthur said, “but Mr. Elton has always reminded me of a saying of my father’s, that the wealthy classes always send the fool of the family into the church.” Of course, he could never mention the context in which his father said it, lamentations that only the wealthy had that luxury and so he was stuck with Arthur.

Miss Smith laughed so loudly that Arthur wondered that it did not awaken Mrs. Goddard. “Yes, that is perfect!” she exclaimed. “That explains Mr. Elton so perfectly! He is always eager and conciliatory, but there is simply  _ nothing at all _ to him beyond that.” She sighed. “Perhaps that means Miss Woodhouse is right about him having an attachment to me. I seem to attract the boring ones.”

Arthur wanted to ask what she meant, but was also slightly fearful of hearing the answer.

“If the society of Miss Woodhouse has done me no other favours,” Miss Smith went on, even without prompting, “it has been to save me from marriage to Mr. Robert Martin.”

“The farmer at the Abbey Mill?”

“Yes, exactly him,” Miss Smith said, nodding. “He is very sweet and entirely dependable and not particularly unattractive, but quite the dullest man alive. Yet if I had not had such encouragement from Miss Woodhouse, I would have accepted his proposal, thinking that I should never be able to do better. And perhaps I never will, but if Miss Emma Woodhouse has the freedom to forsake marriage because it does not suit her, then why can I not do the same? I have not got her resources, but having seen her courage and resolve, I am determined never to marry unless it is for love, real and true and overpowering.”

“What will you do in your old age, then?” Arthur asked. Mrs. Perry was often worrying what would happen to poor Miss Bates when her few finances ran out. She would have to be supported by her niece, Mrs. Perry said, but her niece had no prospects before her beyond becoming a governess, which would surely not give her enough money to support a daffy old maid aunt. “How will you live if you cannot live out your life with Miss Woodhouse at Hartfield?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Smith admitted. “Become a governess or teach here, perhaps.”

The idea seemed to Arthur as being such a terrible one that he was struck dumb. Mr. Perry had commented repeatedly ever since Miss Woodhouse took an interest in Miss Smith that it was scandalous that a young lady so reputed for cleverness as Miss Woodhouse should be spending her time with a young lady said to be almost as empty-headed as Miss Bates.

“You wound me with that face,” Miss Smith reproached him, even as she reached out to prod him in the arm, proof that the laudanum was still working on her to make her so forgetful of the impropriety of the gesture. “I am not—you must understand that a woman such as I—such as all the students here—we are taught to appear as empty, hollow vessels waiting to be filled in by our future husbands. Mrs. Goddard means well, I do not doubt, but she teaches us to repress thought and not to allow anything to show through that would give us personality or charm or the least appearance of wit.” Miss Smith’s lips formed a frown so exaggerated that it was almost a pout. “Having no one else to turn to, what could I do but obey the instructions my teachers gave me? But I assure you, I am not such a fool as the people in the village believe me to be.”

“No one else to turn to?” Arthur repeated. “But you must have family, or who would have paid Mrs. Goddard to raise and school you?”

Miss Smith’s smile turned almost callous. “Oh, yes, I have a father, or had when I was brought here as a tiny child many years ago. He paid Mrs. Goddard—perhaps still pays her—for my upkeep, and his anonymity. In the village, they call me the natural daughter of somebody, and I am certainly not the fool it would be required to fail to see what  _ that _ means.”

No wonder, then, that Mr. Perry had no regard for Miss Smith! Arthur tried to smile at her despite how acutely he felt her pain. “You are quite better off than I am,” he assured her. “You are Miss Amanda Smith, the daughter of  _ somebody _ , but me? I’m no one, son of nobody.”

Miss Smith laughed. “But you just said you have a father!”

“Indeed I do,” Arthur agreed, “and he is absolutely nobody, a draper in a small town in Lancashire, about half a day’s ride outside of Manchester. Even in that town, he is regarded as less than nothing; neither he nor his shop has even half the regard of the Fords and their shop.”

“That is at least respectable,” Miss Smith reminded him. “How did you end up so far from home, and as the apprentice to an apothecary, if your father is a Lancashire draper?”

“That is…a very long story, and parts of it are not respectable enough to be repeated in front of a fine young lady like yourself.” Particularly the parts that involved how and why he left his father’s home. Those were not suitable to be repeated before any one at all. Unless, perchance, Arthur could find others not so unlike himself. “But I can assure you that my father did not need me; I have an older brother who will be taking over for my father, and will do a far better job of it than I would have.”

Miss Smith giggled again, and began to press Arthur so insistently for the story of his departure from Lancashire that she ended up waking Mrs. Goddard, thereby sparing him any further humiliation. In light of Miss Smith’s coherence, he decided she was  _ probably _ out of danger from the laudanum—if she had ever been in danger in the first place—and told Mrs. Goddard that she no longer needed his services, leaving a very little bit of extra laudanum in case Miss Smith’s symptoms did not show marked improvement by the morning.

Of course, that meant facing a long walk through the blackness of Christmas night in a heavy freeze, but Arthur cheerfully informed the servants that he would be fine; winters were much colder in Lancashire than in Surrey, so he was used to this sort of thing. It was a lie, naturally, but it kept them from interfering with his departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, I gave the manor house I had to invent the name of "Coxgrove", which I still think is a really good name for an English manor house. Unfortunately, with there being a family in town by the name of Cox (who are of what we would probably call the middle class), that didn't really seem like a very good choice for this fic. :( I liked the "Co" opening, though, so I combined that with "Carfax" to get "Colfax." (Because I couldn't just use Carfax, as vampires have no place in Jane Austen-related fanfiction. On the other hand, I could easily see a vampiric Brian Slade...)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I might as well have just stuck this on the first chapter after all, but this chapter already introduces the major casting error from the film, in the form of Miss Jane Fairfax, who was absolutely 100% miscast. Miss Jane Fairfax, the book makes a point of repeatedly telling us, is precisely the same age as Emma Woodhouse (21), and of a very pale complexion, in part due to her history of ill health. The woman cast in the role in the movie is a full ten years older than that (and could not pass for 21 the way Gwyneth Paltrow (who was something in the neighborhood of 23, I believe) was able to), quite tan, and very clearly in the best of health in all ways. On top of all that, they reduced Jane Fairfax to more of a concept than a proper character, even though she's quite critical to the story! (In fact, if I am remembering the movie correctly, she may have only had spoken dialog in a single scene.)

Mr. Perry informed Arthur—repeatedly—that New Year’s in Highbury was not always quite this dull. Normally, some one of high esteem among the Highbury elite would hold some sort of soiree to mark the changing of the year, even if it was nothing more than a dinner-party exclusively for the most gentle families at Randalls or Donwell Abbey. But the snow had not melted, the weather each morning continued adding more, or pouring a thin mist of rain that froze to ice as the sun set, and the whole town felt dull and gray and dead. The most chatter there was in the street was discussion of Mr. Elton’s sudden departure for Bath, which interested Arthur not in the least.

Not, of course, that any of the other gossip in town ever interested him, either. When Mr. Weston’s son failed to turn up in January as he had originally promised, the tale of his life at Enscombe (though none seemed exactly sure where in Yorkshire it was located) was repeated so often throughout the village—and so often in precisely the same language—that Arthur could have recited it like poetry. Despite the fact that a man of three and twenty should surely have been his own master enough to manage to see his own father and meet his new step-mother, no one in Highbury seemed to blame him for his continued absence, choosing instead to blame his aunt, Mrs. Wild, who was apparently both quite sickly and quite dependent on her nephew. Just what, precisely, she needed from her nephew that she could not get from her husband and all the servants that their great fortune allowed them, Arthur could not imagine. When he tried to say so to Mrs. Wallis as he was picking up a loaf of bread for Mrs. Perry, he was subjected to twenty minutes’ lecture on how much comfort was derived from the presence of a son—and since the Wilds had no children of their own, Mr. Curt Wild had become a son to them even in name—comfort which could never be derived from any other source, and how Arthur would surely understand once he had children of his own.

He bitterly longed to correct her that he would never have children of his own, but knew enough to hold his tongue.

Still, the people of Highbury were like the people of any other village, and their tongues wagged on whatever subject was newest to their interest, so by the end of the month they had all but forgotten the very existence of Mr. Curt Wild, in order to express their latest fascination. This time, it was the sudden return of Miss Bates’ niece, Miss Jane Fairfax, who had grown so very elegant and refined since her last visit to Highbury some two years hence. The tale of her life, as told  _ ad nauseum _ by absolutely every one in town, was just as uniform in its telling as the earlier tale had been, if perhaps more embellished because the original source was no doubt the dotty but verbose Miss Bates. Arthur knew he ought to feel badly for Miss Fairfax having lost her father on foreign battlefields before she was even old enough to know him, but whenever he heard about fathers lost to war, Arthur’s only thought could be a selfish wish that his own father had been patriot enough to go and die for king and country. He did not doubt that Col. Campbell must have been a kind and generous man to take in his comrade’s orphan and raise her alongside his own daughter, but he simply could not fathom what need there was for every soul in Highbury to keep going on and on about it. Or, for that matter, about Miss Fairfax herself. So she was Miss Woodhouse’s exact equal in age and more or less her equal in beauty, if you discounted the peaky colour and frail health that plagued Miss Fairfax. What could that matter to Arthur, or to anyone else, either? Miss Fairfax was but a temporary resident in Highbury (though, for that matter, so was Arthur), and would be forgotten again as soon as she left, for villages had short memories.

And short attention spans, since the gossip as quickly abandoned Miss Fairfax as it had embraced her, for soon after a letter came from Bath to the Coles, in which Mr. Elton announced his engagement to a lady of wealth and family that he had met there. Arthur nearly laughed when he first heard the news. So much for Miss Woodhouse’s scheme to force Miss Smith into marrying him! The news must have been a relief to Miss Smith indeed.

The gossip in Highbury remained fixated mostly on Mr. Elton—while still occasionally remembering to repeat Miss Fairfax’s tragic tale at least once a week, if not daily—until one day in late February when spring decided to bloom shockingly early. Mr. Perry had been called to Hartfield to once again quiet some fantastic fear that Mr. Woodhouse had concocted in his strange little mind. Arthur was convinced that the man had absolutely no ailments of the body whatsoever, and that all his woes were purely devised by his brain alone, but Mr. Perry had scolded him bitterly the one time he had said so, and Arthur was not about to repeat that mistake, so he had obediently accompanied Mr. Perry that day. Not long into the proceeding, he was dispatched to the kitchen to request some light refreshment be brought to relieve Mr. Woodhouse’s ailment.

When Arthur arrived in the kitchen, he found the coachman, James, in the midst of a furious complaint to the cook, Mr. Serle, and one of the maids. The maid cut him off quickly, with a laugh and a warm hand on his arm. “It’s your own fault,” she said. “If you had remained here instead of walking over to see Hannah, then the young miss would have had no need to take the coach out by herself.”

“I have a right to speak to my own daughter, I do!” James insisted. “Miss Woodhouse had no business trying to do my job for me! What if she hadn’t just gotten stuck, eh? What if she had actually damaged the wheel—or the whole coach? What if someone had stolen the horse before I could get there and get the wheel freed?”

“What happened?” Arthur asked, briefly forgetting his errand. “Was any one hurt?” Any thing would be better than tending to another of Mr. Woodhouse’s imaginary illnesses!

“No, thanks be, Miss Woodhouse was not injured,” James said, shaking his head.

“Would have been stranded there, if the young gentleman had not come across her,” the maid added, shaking her head with a smile. “How exciting that must have been for Miss Woodhouse! Like being rescued by a handsome knight in a fairy story!”

“Young gentleman?” Arthur repeated.

“Oh, yes, very heroic and knightly,” James said sullenly. “If a son of mine spoke to a lady that way, I’d acquaint him with the first strop of birch I could find!”

The maid just laughed, and shook her head.

“What happened?” Arthur asked,  _ again _ . “What did he say—and who is ‘he’?”

James just grimaced, and stormed out of the room. Mr. Serle chuckled. “Mr. Curt Wild,” he explained. “He brought Miss Woodhouse to Randalls on the horse he had been riding.”

The maid sighed. “Such a brave gesture—so unafraid of gossip and scorn for his reputation!—must have done a great deal to cover for his earlier flippancy.”

It took Arthur several minutes more of prompting before the cook and the maid—though mostly just the maid—finally related the complete tale to him (which they had evidently had from James only moments before Arthur’s arrival). After the wheel of the coach became fixed on a rock hidden in the flooded stream she had been foolishly trying to ford, evidently the young gentleman had ridden up to her and said “Is your horse just washing his feet, or are there darker forces at work here?” And when Miss Woodhouse had explained that her wheel was stuck and her carriage could not move, he had said “You’ll just have to live here, then,” and turned as if to ride off. But then—being a proper gentleman after all—he had realised that would never do, and offered to help her out of her predicament. At which time, of course, introductions had to be made, and he was delighted to take her to Randalls, which had been her destination all along.

There was a certain charm to the story, Arthur had to admit, and he was curious to see what sort of man was willing to let a lady think him the sort of cad who might ride off and leave her in distress (if the knowledge that she would have to walk and get her feet wet truly counted as ‘distress’), but he did not see that the story merited anywhere near the level of excited interest that the maid gave it. Nor did it merit the ire James had displayed, either, but that had mostly been aimed at Miss Woodhouse rather than Mr. Curt Wild.

The story and the young gentleman’s arrival in Highbury of course became the talk of the town for days. No one could talk about anything without finding some way to relate it to Mr. Curt Wild somehow. And after setting eyes on the man, Arthur could understand the universal fascination. Arthur had just been leaving Ford’s shop—Mrs. Perry had sent him on an errand while she was otherwise occupied—and he had seen Mr. Weston’s carriage suddenly come to a stop in front of the home of the Bateses. The young man who had stepped out of the carriage was unfamiliar to Arthur, so even if the carriage had not been Mr. Weston’s, his identity would have been immediately clear.

Certainly, the gossip had not exaggerated when it had said that Mr. Curt Wild was the most handsome gentleman any of the people in town had ever seen. No, perhaps the gossip hadn’t gone quite so far in praising his features, but it should have. Arthur had rather an awful view, being across the street and at an oblique angle, but he had seen enough to quite take his breath away. Mr. Curt Wild had a strong chin and a warm smile, and eyes that danced even at this distance. Unfashionably long blond hair brushed against the shoulders of his ever-so-elegant suit, but looked so perfect in framing his face that Arthur would not have wished him to trim even a single hair of it for all the world.

Arthur’s glimpse of Mr. Curt Wild had been brief, of course. The gentleman had told his coachman he would be but a few minutes, and then knocked on the door and been admitted by Mrs. Bates’s maid. A couple of older ladies near Arthur on the street began gossiping about it as soon as the man disappeared inside, saying how Mr. Curt Wild had spent time in Weymouth, where he had moved in the same set as Col. Campbell, so he must have been going to check on the colonel’s ward as a favour, or perhaps he had heard word from the Campbells in Ireland (where they were evidently staying with their daughter and son-in-law), and was sharing the news with Miss Fairfax. Or perhaps he was just doing his duty as a fine upstanding gentleman of Highbury (even though he resided in Yorkshire?) and stopping in to take care of the elderly Mrs. Bates, or of Miss Bates, who every one in Highbury loved very dearly so long as she was not near enough to talk to them.

Given his errand for Mrs. Perry, Arthur could not spare the time to wait and see how long Miss Bates kept Mr. Curt Wild against his will, but he expected it would be just as long as she kept every one else. Of course, by the time Arthur returned, Mr. Perry had another task for him, and the incident was forced out of his mind.

What point was there in dwelling on someone like Mr. Curt Wild, anyway? He was nothing like Arthur. And even if he  _ had _ been, he was a gentleman, a man of good birth and finer fortune; Arthur had no right even to speak to such men except in his capacity as Mr. Perry’s apprentice. Even if he eventually managed to become an apothecary in his own right, with his own little shop somewhere, he would still be little more than a servant in the eyes of such proper gentlemen. There was no point in thinking about them.

A man like Mr. Curt Wild, however, seemed determined to make every one think about him all the time, though. Gossip soon spread that the Coles were going to throw quite a large party at their home, and although the Coles were known to be fond of dinner-parties, many speculated that the timing was specifically to celebrate the return of Mr. Weston’s long absent son. Certainly, he featured in all discussions of the upcoming party, even more so when one morning he suddenly announced that he wanted to have his hair cut—which Arthur thought a crime against his perfect looks!—and immediately sent for a chaise and set off to London, planning to return again by that night. Travelling thirty-two miles in one day just to get his hair cut seemed quite absurd to Arthur, and most of the men of Highbury agreed that it smacked of vanity, but the ladies all insisted that it was a young man’s prerogative to make sure he looked his finest before his first dinner-party among a company, particularly if he hoped to impress a particular young lady among the guests.

Arthur had a feeling they would not have defended him thus if his face had not been so particularly handsome and his manners so excessively charming. But as Arthur found himself forgiving him for the same reasons (though he had not experienced his manners except through hearsay), he could not bring himself to fault the women for saying so.

*******

Amanda was not, in truth, entirely sure how she should be behaving at this dinner-party. Emma was expecting her to be still heartbroken over Mr. Elton, though how  _ anyone _ could ever attach so much affection to such a dim, dizzy and even rather foppish fellow was a mystery to Amanda. She might have been more at ease if Emma had done as she had threatened and refused the invitation in outrage at the Coles overstepping their proper social bounds.

But perhaps Emma would be too distracted by Mr. Curt Wild’s antics to notice that Amanda was not acting as though she was crushed and joyless by the rejection of a man whose affections she had never desired. If the stories were true, to-night might be quite exciting. After having a sudden freak and dashing off the London to have his hair cut, he had returned with nary a sign of any shearing of his long, golden locks, only to compound his bizarre behaviour with the most odd and secretive acts, disappearing from Randalls for long stretches in which he was not seen again by any one until he should return to Randalls for a meal without a word to explain where he had been. Emma had expressed herself certain, when Amanda had spoken to her earlier that afternoon, that he would surely use the party to expose whatever secret he had been keeping since his sojourn to London. Mr. Curt Wild was, Emma asserted, far too honest and pure a soul to keep a secret long.

Whatever the condition of Mr. Curt Wild’s soul, he had not yet arrived when Amanda entered the dining room at the Cole household. Nor, for that matter, had Emma, though she arrived a few moments later, entering together with Mr. Knightley, as their coaches had come one after the other. As soon as they arrived, Mr. Cole and a few of the other gentlemen called Mr. Knightley into a nearby study to discuss something of business, leaving the ladies alone in the room. Mrs. Cole took advantage of that moment to cease directing the servants, and instead regale them with all the latest news. Earlier that day, Mrs. Cole had gone to see Miss Bates, to enquire as to whether she and her niece would need a coach sent for them to protect Miss Fairfax’s fragile health, and what did she find but a large and most fine piano-forte taking up nearly half of their parlour? It had arrived that morning, addressed to Miss Fairfax, much to the surprise—and no doubt consternation—of her aunt and grandmother, who barely had space for themselves and Miss Fairfax, let alone a piano-forte, even a square one such as that. Whoever had sent the piano-forte had not thought to inform Miss Fairfax of it in advance, nor had he—or she—sent any word along with the instrument to identify the young lady’s benefactor. The general conclusion was that it must have been sent by Col. Campbell, though the look on Emma’s face said that she did not believe it in the least.

There might have been yet more talk of the mysterious piano-forte if Miss Fairfax herself had not arrived, accompanied of course by Miss Bates. Their arrival seemed to remind Mrs. Cole that she needed to continue hastily directing the servants about the dinner, and the talk in the dining room resumed the normal, dissipated chatter. The gentlemen returned soon after, anyway, and chatter became louder and more varied still. Emma stood by Amanda’s side, and every time the name of Mr. Elton drifted across the room, Emma quietly reached down and gave Amanda’s hand a comforting squeeze. If the gesture had spoken of a secret love between the two of them, it would have been a most thrilling thing indeed, but as it was, as some weak form of compensation for an imagined heartbreak, it served only to fluster Amanda’s nerves.

It was while she was thus in a fluster that Amanda first laid eyes on him.

Mr. Curt Wild had arrived much later than expected—the last of the guests to arrive, in fact, far later than the Westons—and he looked much as Emma (and everyone else in town) had described him to look. With what was said to be his usual charm and broad smile, he asked Mrs. Cole if it would terribly upset her table if his dear friend were to join them. Only then did said friend follow him into the dining room. He was about the same height as Mr. Curt Wild, and of much the same build, but there their similarities ceased. He appeared to be a few years the elder, perhaps in the neighbourhood of seven or eight and twenty, and his light brown hair was very fashionably trimmed. His face was narrow and elegant, with a nobility of line, and a sobriety that was exceedingly thrilling in comparison to the flippancy of his friend and the hollow irrelevance of Highbury men (excepting, of course, Mr. Knightley who was also so very full of weighty consequence). He was dressed more beautifully than any man Amanda had ever seen, his clothes the height of fashion, perfectly cut, and brilliantly colourful.

The new arrival bowed to Mrs. Cole and pressed her hand to his lips, expressing his apologies for the sudden intrusion into her home. She was barely able to produce any response, so Mr. Curt Wild intervened. “This is my dear friend,” he explained, “Brian Stoningham, Lord Slade.”

A tremor ran through the room, and a rush of air as everyone held their breath in awe. No wonder he looked so fine, if he was actual nobility! The most genteel of Highbury society was never elevated enough to keep company even with earls, let alone barons! And ones who were also famed poets? No one seemed to know how to react to this astonishing news.

“I happened to run into Curt yesterday in London,” Lord Slade said, still holding Mrs. Cole’s hand and looking at her, but seeming to aim his voice to the whole room. “He regaled me with tales of how charming Highbury is, and since I was already planning to spend the summer months here, I thought I would come a few weeks early, in order to spend more time with him. However, if my presence here to-night should be an imposition, I will gladly depart, dear lady.”

“Oh! No, no, I would not dream of sending you away, Lord Slade!” Mrs. Cole exclaimed. “It is an honour and a great pleasure to have you here.”

Chaos ensued, as the dining table had to be hastily rearranged and an additional place sent for. Amanda spent the entire time dreadfully afraid she would be banished from the party to make room, and she found herself standing to one side of the room, beside Miss Bates, who was repeatedly expressing the same fear. Emma soon joined them, and reassured Amanda that there would be no sending away a lady when there was one  _ gentleman _ too many. Mr. Knightley actually offered to sit out the dinner to make room without putting out the table, but this offer was swiftly refused. In the end, two additional places were laid out, and one of the Misses Cox sent for, a bit young and under-refined for such a gathering, but this was to be overlooked for the sake of a balanced table.

Over dinner, no one at Lord Slade’s end of the table spoke except to him, and even those at the far end of the table (like Amanda herself) spoke as little as possible, straining to hear his words without looking as though they were listening. How often would any of them actually be in company with him again, after all? Even if he was the mysterious and wealthy man who had rented Colfax for the summer—and it certainly sounded as though he was—he was hardly going to be diminishing himself by keeping company with Highbury’s meagre society. No doubt he planned to spend the whole summer indoors, working on his poetry, with only brief respites to walk through the luxurious gardens at Colfax and experience the beauty of the Surrey countryside.

After dinner, as the ladies went into the parlour while the men remained at the table for brandy, there was no subject of conversation other than the sudden and thrilling arrival of Brian Stoningham, Lord Slade. Every aspect of his appearance and presentation was discussed in the most thorough of details. Every lady agreed that there was not a single flaw to be seen in him; he was dressed and groomed to the pinnacle of perfection, and his face was both handsome and serious, unlike the irreverence of his friend’s good looks. Amanda could not help herself from adding the comment that standing beside each other, the two reminded her of the theatre masks, one smiling and one frowning, opposite but complementary, the one incomplete without the other.

The discussion soon moved on from Lord Slade himself to his poetry. There was some debate as to whether he was truly famous as a poet, or if he was in fact infamous. It was rumoured, after all, that his epic’s protagonist was based on himself, and such things that implied! Evidently, the contents were rather scandalous, a fact that seemed well supported by the fact that Mrs. Goddard had never allowed any copies of the poem into her house. But perhaps Amanda would be able to obtain a copy through Highbury’s sole bookseller without Mrs. Goddard’s knowledge. Though perhaps not; every one in town would likely be seeking a copy, now that the poet was so near.

The little gossiping knots dispersed to more genteel arrangements as the gentlemen came in, and once everyone had found a seat, Mrs. Cole began preparing their piano-forte, and Mr. Cole was soon begging Emma to play on it to open the evening. Emma gave a false show of modesty, and only relented when Mr. Curt Wild joined in requesting her to play. Amanda had heard Emma’s playing before, and had always found her to be quite skilful on the piano-forte, but this was the first time she had heard Emma sing, and she had to admit that she was quite disappointed in the thinness of Emma’s voice. Thankfully, Mr. Curt Wild suddenly joined in to cover the weakness of her vocal performance. He, it turned out, had quite a marvellous voice. Amanda could not help but notice, while he was singing, the very rapt and delighted expression on Lord Slade’s face. If this was the first time he had heard Mr. Curt Wild sing, she suspected it would certainly not be the last.

Once Emma was done playing, Miss Jane Fairfax was requested to follow her on the piano-forte. Surprisingly, Mr. Curt Wild did not move from where he had taken up a position beside the piano-forte, and accompanied her as well, though her voice was much stronger and did not require his assistance so dreadfully. It seemed an odd state of affairs, actually; Miss Fairfax was so sickly by nature, and always looked almost as if she was about to faint, yet her voice was so very robust! Mr. Curt Wild apparently much preferred Miss Fairfax’s playing, because he requested another piece from her. They might have gone on all night if Mr. Knightley had not intervened, asserting that this was too much for Miss Fairfax’s weak health and frail throat.

Mr. Curt Wild accepted the rebuke with good grace and a warm laugh, then gestured towards his seated friend. “Why not come up and join me, Brian?” he said. “Show Highbury how talented you are with this instrument.”

“A gentleman does not play the piano-forte in front of others,” Lord Slade replied, a cool tone approaching disgust in his voice.

“Then at least favour us with a song. Miss Woodhouse can play to accompany you.”

“I have no desire to sing, either, thank you very much.”

Mr. Curt Wild shook his head. “That is a pity. You have such a fine voice. But you must do  _ something _ to entertain and thank the Coles for having put out their party so awfully.” The only response was silence, so he went on, his voice both laughing and prodding. “A bit of a recitation, perhaps.”

“I suppose I must,” Lord Slade conceded, getting to his feet and taking up a position in front of the piano-forte.

“The opening stanzas of the first canto of ‘Childe Maxwell,’ maybe,” Mr. Curt Wild suggested in passing as he resumed his seat.

Lord Slade frowned slightly before beginning his recitation. Its language was quite archaic and the performance anything but enthusiastic, so Amanda had some difficulty following it. The poem began by invoking the tired muse who had been living above the planet for so long, kept company only by forty-four vicious metal hounds, which had kept the muse from coming down to Earth any more. Then the narrative descended from the sky with a metaphor of drops of rain, to the young man of twenty-five, Childe Maxwell, who was so bored by his dissolute life that he was no longer sure if he was dead or alive. He was travelling the world, sharing good-bye kisses even as he felt no touch of harm from the poisoned wine he was served where ever he went.

In all honestly, Amanda was quite sure she was missing some thing—or more likely a great many things—as many of the lines did not entirely seem to make sense to her. Though some of that might have been that she was so thoroughly distracted by the speaker’s beauty that it was hard to pay enough attention to his actual words.

Lord Slade drew another breath as if to continue his recitation, then shut his eyes a moment, with an uncertain expression. “Perhaps I had best stop there,” he said, moving away from the piano-forte.

Nearly every one assembled in the parlour applauded most politely, and complimented Lord Slade excessively on his great skill, even as they thanked him most sincerely for sharing with them. Mr. Curt Wild, on the other hand, laughed and told him he was being quite mean to give such a fleeting glimpse of his poem. “Are you trying to increase your sales?” he asked, with an insouciant laugh.

“What an absurd question,” Lord Slade replied. “I will not dignify it with a reply.” That only made Mr. Curt Wild laugh again, but Amanda noticed a look of disgust on Mr. Knightley’s face, as if he believed that Mr. Curt Wild had been quite correct about his friend’s motive.

With the entertainment over, the party dissipated into small clusters of chatting friends and acquaintances. Amanda soon found herself seated alone on a small couch near the wall, as Emma’s ear was never unbent, between Mr. Curt Wild, Mr. Knightley and Mrs. Weston, who all seemed to want to speak to no one else. She would have wished that she had not come, except that nothing could have induced her to wish to miss the arrival of Lord Slade.

As if he had heard her thinking of him, Lord Slade himself suddenly sat down in a chair near her seat. “What is a lovely young lady like yourself doing all alone at a party?” he asked, smiling at her as if he meant it.

Amanda felt her cheeks heat most unbecomingly. “Oh…I…am not very adept at parties, I suppose,” she said. “I hardly know who to turn to, until I end up turning to no one at all.”

“Yes, they can be quite tiresome affairs,” Lord Slade agreed. “I prefer more intimate gatherings, myself. How can I enjoy any one’s company if I cannot hear my own thoughts, let alone hers?” He paused a moment, looking at her so closely that she felt as though she was the sole object in a room lined with mirrors, her every angle of being exposed to his perceptive gaze. “I believe we have not yet been introduced,” he eventually added.

“Oh! I am so sorry! I am Amanda Smith, of—I currently reside with Mrs. Goddard.”

“It is a delight to meet you, Miss Smith,” Lord Slade said, leaning forward to take her hand, almost as if he would kiss it. Perhaps he might have even done so, if he had not been distracted by the commotion from behind him, as some of the gentlemen were clearing the furniture out of the way to make room. “How quaint,” Lord Slade commented, with a sardonic smile. “It appears they will have some dancing.” His smile became more honest and more charming. “Do you—”

Before Lord Slade could pronounce another syllable, Mr. Curt Wild approached them, and set a hand on Lord Slade’s shoulder. “Here you are, Brian,” he said. “You must let me borrow you a minute.”

With an amiable word and one last warm smile for Amanda, Lord Slade rose and accompanied his friend towards the area where the dancing would be held. As they were walking away, Mr. Curt Wild cast a cold glance over his shoulder at Amanda, then leaned in to whisper something in Lord Slade’s ear. Amanda hardly needed Emma Woodhouse’s ability to read the very hearts of others to know that Lord Slade was being filled in on her disgraceful birth. She would certainly never get to speak with him again. The knowledge filled her with a pang of regret, but no matter how Emma might attempt to pretend that Amanda deserved better than her illicit birth entitled her to, Amanda knew better than to expect anyone (apart from Emma herself) to give her such kindness.

When the dancing began—accompanied by Mrs. Weston on the piano-forte—Amanda stayed where she was at the edge of the room and simply watched. For the first dance, Lord Slade showed further gratitude by dancing with Mrs. Cole, while Mr. Curt Wild of course danced with Emma, and even Amanda had to admit that they looked lovely together. (Though she doubted anyone thought as highly of the perfection of their pairing as Mr. Weston did, his face positively beaming with pleasure.) Though many of the dancers changed partners after the first dance, Emma remained with Mr. Curt Wild. Lord Slade traded Mrs. Cole for Miss Jane Fairfax, and did not seem pleased with the results, which struck Amanda as most odd, considering Mrs. Cole was an older, married woman of low birth (even if not as low as Amanda’s own), and Miss Fairfax was such a charming and beautiful young woman of…well, perhaps her birth was only marginally better than Mrs. Cole’s, but the tragic beauty of the tale her father’s death on foreign battlefields surely should have elevated her greatly in the eyes of a poet.

Mrs. Weston had scarcely finished playing the second song when Miss Bates insisted that she and her niece really must be heading home, as she was worried about her mother being alone so late at night. This not only ended the dancing—where would they have found another to replace Miss Fairfax?—but soon had the entire party dispersing back to their homes.

As the others began to depart, Emma sought Amanda out to see if she needed a ride back to the school in Emma’s carriage. While they were still speaking together, Lord Slade and Mr. Curt Wild were saying their farewells to the guests, and of course came over to say a fond good night to Emma. To Amanda’s surprise, she found Lord Slade once more taking her hand, and this time he really did raise it to his lips and kiss it—even after he knew her origins! “The sorrow of evenings like these is having to part with such lovely ladies as yourselves so soon,” he said, after releasing Amanda’s hand and taking Emma’s, without making any move to kiss it. “I do hope you will both come to call at Colfax.”

“Of course we will!” Amanda exclaimed, far more eagerly and with much more warmth than she had intended. “Won’t we, Miss Woodhouse?” she added, looking at Emma in the hopes that she could use her magical charm to lessen Amanda’s terrible  _ faux pas _ .

“Naturally, we would be most delighted to call at Colfax,” Emma agreed, smiling at Lord Slade.

Even as he smiled back at her, something in Lord Slade’s eyes appeared cold and uninviting. It must have been a trick of the light, because it faded away entirely as he turned away from her, allowing Mr. Curt Wild to say his own farewells to his dear Miss Woodhouse. The two of them departed without another word, causing Emma to frown most petulantly and place her hands on her hips.

“How could he be so rude as to ignore you?” Emma asked, looking after Mr. Curt Wild. “I expected better of him! As Mr. Weston’s son, I mean,” she added, as if in haste to deny the obvious attachment forming between herself and Mr. Curt Wild.

“It is quite all right,” Amanda assured her. “I do not need to be farewelled by every man in the room.” No other man could ever cause such a flutter of warmth in her chest with a simple gesture as Lord Slade just had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I should have tossed out the ludicrous scene from the movie that introduced Frank Churchill, but...as someone who has studied screenwriting (not that I was any good at it), I have to love it for how perfectly it introduces us to his entire character all at once. (Also, let us be honest, Ewan was really awesome in that scene. I mean, yes, he stole the whole movie (technically, he would have been failing to live up to the role if he hadn't), but he really made that scene into something special. Despite how asinine the actual events in the scene were.) This makes as good a place as any, though, to admit to one of the other major failings of this fic that were induced by the film: the movie (as I recall it) seemed to have been filmed entirely in the month of May, when everything was lovely and in bloom. Even though the events of the book take place over the course of an entire year. (More like a year and a month, actually.) Thus I have ended up with a lot of outdoor scenes in gardens in March and April in England *before* a hundred years of climate change. But the movie kept setting almost every scene outdoors (even though it would have given Mr. Woodhouse literal heart failure to have Emma spending so much of her time outside) in lovely, pleasant weather and that kind of got hard-wired onto my brain. (Also it doesn't help that my brain has also been hard-wired to think of spring the way I have experienced it, rather than the way it would have been a hundred years ago.) So...yeah, freakishly early and super-warm spring. *cough*
> 
> Oh, and as to the party at the Coles', in the book, Miss Smith, Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax did not arrive until after dinner, as "less worthy females", but unless I wanted Brian to miss the dinner, too, that had to be changed. And I did actually attempt to write the opening two stanzas of "Childe Maxwell's Pilgrimage"...and decided that rather than spend the entire end note apologizing to everyone who suffered through reading it as well as to all poets in the history of language, it was better to delete it and replace it with a summary. You're welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

As the undisputed leader of Highbury society, Emma announced, it was her duty to hold a party to welcome Lord Slade, since he had declared himself willing to mix with the ordinary gentility of the village. She was already in the midst of planning it when Amanda came to Hartfield the very next day after the Coles’ dinner-party. “Of course, it will not be a terribly large party,” Emma lamented almost the moment after she made her announcement. “My father cannot possibly host a large gathering. His health simply will not permit it.”

“Is it to be a private gathering, then?” Amanda asked, her heart aching at the thought of missing out on any opportunity of seeing Lord Slade again. “Just you and your father and Lord Slade?”

Emma laughed. “Good gracious, it shall not be _that_ small a gathering! We could never hold any sort of party without inviting Mr. Knightley, of course. And we must invite the Westons; after all, it is only because of Mr. Curt Wild that we any of us had the honour of meeting Lord Slade in the first place.” She paused thoughtfully, tapping her finger on a nearby tabletop. “As it stands, the table will be out of balance. We will be two ladies short…”

“Two? Would it not be three ladies short?” Amanda asked, after going over the names in her head. “Only you and Mrs. Weston to balance out all those gentlemen…”

“I could never leave you out, dear Amanda!” Emma rose and embraced her. The gesture did not warm Amanda’s soul the way it always had previously. “But we are still two short. I suppose the thing to do would be to invite Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, but after last night—with all that Mrs. Weston had to say—no, no, Miss Fairfax simply shall not do!” Emma exclaimed with a sudden passion. “She is, after all, far too low class to be invited to share a table with a baron,” she added, with more usual reserve. But her words made Amanda uncomfortable. If Miss Fairfax was too lowly for Lord Slade’s company, how could Amanda not be seen as too lowly, when her own birth was so far worse than that of Miss Fairfax? “I wonder if Isabella could make the trip from London for a few days in order to join us. I know she has certainly never met a baron before…” Emma mused with a sigh as she sat down again. "Given my father's age and ill health, we might be forgiven if he leaves us one gentleman too many, but we could never escape censure for being two too many..."

“Oh, if your sister would come, do you think she could purchase a copy of Lord Slade's poem, the one he recited last night?” Amanda asked. “I enquired at the bookseller on the way here, and he informed me that he not only has he none, half the town has already been in to ask after copies!”

Emma frowned at her. “My dear Miss Smith,” she said, an edge of imperious formality encroaching in her tone as well as her words, “you need to be more cautious. That work is not something young ladies like ourselves should be reading.”

“I do not understand. How could it be unsuitable for ladies if it is suitable for gentlemen? And how could such a refined man as Lord Slade ever compose anything unsuitable for any portion of genteel society?” Amanda asked, all too aware that she did not actually qualify as ‘genteel.’

Emma sighed. “I can only tell you what Mr. Knightley has told _me_ on the matter, as I have certainly not read it myself. He says that _Childe Maxwell’s Pilgrimage_ is the tale of the dissolute Childe Maxwell, who has been left so bored after exhausting every possible immorality at home that he must travel in search of a better life. Despite much talk about wanting to give up his vile ways, he still engages in such scandalous vices that Mr. Knightley blushed at the thought of telling me about them! Can you imagine what it takes to make Mr. Knightley blush?”

Amanda had to admit that she could not. She did not admit, though, that she now even more wanted to read it, if it contained things as would make such a gentleman blush. “But why would Lord Slade write something if it was so improper?”

“Evidently, Childe Maxwell bears the same soul as his creator,” Emma replied. “That is what everyone says, at any rate.”

“If you think so little of him, why do you want to give a party in his honour?”

“If I do not after he so specifically invited me to call on him at Colfax, then everyone in Highbury will think me to be snubbing him!” Emma shook her head. “I cannot open myself up to such criticism. Besides, it would be an insult to Mr. Curt Wild to spurn his friend so.”

Little knowing what else to say, Amanda gave voice to a weak agreement to Emma’s sentiments. It all felt dreadfully artificial—perhaps even deceitful—to her, but what right could she have to say so? Emma did not want to be debated or have her flaws commented on by one such as Amanda, and she knew that perfectly well. Emma would surely only accept such frankness from Mr. Knightley, if from anyone at all.

With the discussion of Lord Slade’s poetical works and character laid aside so expertly, Emma returned to fretting over the arrangements for the party, until she hit upon the idea that they might both of them go over to Randalls and ask Mrs. Weston’s advice. Secretly, Amanda wondered if it was Mrs. Weston who Emma wanted to see, or if it was Mr. Curt Wild, but all she said was to give a demure approval to the idea.

If Emma had indeed wanted to see Mr. Curt Wild, she was frustrated in that ambition, because he was—according to his step-mother—at Colfax, visiting with his friend, and was not expected back until late. Emma made no sign of being put out by his absence, and set about discussing every minute detail of the upcoming party with Mrs. Weston, who offered sage advice on every subject. The matter of the unbalanced table she was able to resolve without the slightest difficulty, as she revealed that Mr. Weston had business to conduct in London, and would be away from Highbury two nights hence. While a bit rude to Mr. Weston, that so simplified the question of the guest list that Emma immediately seized upon it as the perfect date to hold the party. (Mr. Weston, after all, spent so many evenings at Hartfield that neither he nor the Woodhouses could be said to be languishing for each others’ company.)

She and Amanda set off for Colfax at once in Emma’s coach, to ensure that Lord Slade would indeed be able to attend, as the dinner would be entirely pointless if he could not or would not. Colfax was a fine old manor house, lower and wider than Hartfield, but of a similar number of rooms, with the most elegant gardens Amanda had ever seen, just the sort of gardens she imagined a prince would have surrounding his castle. It seemed such a picture perfect place for Lord Slade that she immediately felt the most keen pain to think he would only be there through the summer, and that when August came, he would depart and the Whitakers would take possession once more.

They were met at the door not by one of the Whitakers’ servants, but by Lord Slade’s valet, who informed them that Lord Slade had gone out for a tour of the surrounding countryside, and would not be back until the sun was setting. However, he was able to assure Emma that Lord Slade had made no plans for the evening she had picked out for the dinner-party, and that he had never known his employer to refuse an invitation sent to him by a fair young lady. That answer made Emma frown, but she quickly smiled again with mechanical politeness when the valet also told her that he would pass along her invitation.

Thus assured that the dinner-party would not be a waste, they left again, satisfied that preparations could begin in earnest. Amanda did all she could, over the next two days, to assist Emma in preparing for the dinner. Her assistance grew less and less as the time passed, however, as she found herself more and more impatient for the party itself. All the talk in the village—even at Mrs. Goddard’s—was of nothing else, even though far more of Highbury’s residents were being excluded than not. Still, they all could not help wondering what the party would be like, what dinner would be served, and what elegant conversations Lord Slade would hold. When a small rumour reached Amanda’s ears that Mr. Curt Wild was planning to rent out the Crown Inn to hold a ball in about a week’s time, she actually laughed: it sounded to her as though he was jealous not to be the centre of everyone’s fawning attention, perhaps for the first time in his life. It would do him good to be ignored for once, so Amanda very pointedly did not pass on the news to any one, not even Emma.

When the day finally arrived, Amanda spent so long getting herself ready that she was nearly quite late. But Lord Slade was going to be there! She had to do whatever she could to make herself look acceptable. Even her finest dress seemed far too plain, so Amanda worked that much harder on her hair, trying to arrange it in the best fashion, with just the right number of careful ringlets beside her face.

Lord Slade and Mr. Curt Wild were the last to arrive to Hartfield that night. Mr. Woodhouse was already seated at the table, having already greeted the ladies among the guests, and the rest of the party stood milling about, uneasy at the notion of sitting without their primary guest, but with very little else to do, though Mr. Knightley seemed entirely at ease standing beside Mr. Woodhouse and casually chatting about parish affairs. Lord Slade seemed taken aback when he entered the room and saw the table. “Such a small table,” he commented.

“Oh, I do apologise, Lord Slade,” Emma said, smiling at him in that painfully tense way she had. “My father’s ill health forbade a larger gathering. Even this is almost more than he can take.”

Lord Slade smiled at her charmingly. “I quite understand,” he assured her. “An intimate meal is better, at any rate. Less competition for the attention of the fair ladies.”

Mr. Curt Wild glanced at the assembled diners. “Too bad,” he commented. “Looks like Miss Fairfax is not here; you cannot get more fair than that. If you are willing to admit pallor to be the ultimate in fairness of complexion,” he added, with an artificial laugh.

Emma let out a dismayed exclamation. “You are not still saying such awful things, surely! Do not ruin this evening with such terrible words when you know you do not mean them.”

Mr. Curt Wild apologised with a polished insincerity that grated awfully on Amanda’s ears, and the party was soon seated around the dinner table. The table was just small enough—and Lord Slade seated centrally enough—that there was no need of multiple conversations, and almost no one spoke but as part of the conversation Lord Slade was holding with one and all. Sadly, it was mostly a discussion of his travels across Europe, and what could Amanda possibly add to such a conversation when she had never even travelled the sixteen miles to London?

Following dinner, there was music, provided by Emma herself—despite being hostess—with her thin voice once again masked by that of Mr. Curt Wild. But this time he was able to prevail upon Lord Slade to join her in a song for them as well, despite what he protested to be his better judgment. The lyrics of the song were in Italian or French, so Amanda did not understand a word of it, but Lord Slade’s magnificent singing voice cut through her flesh straight to her soul, making her feel as if he sang for her and her alone, even though he barely glanced at her more than once in the course of his performance.

But after the music, the evening became quite dull, and Amanda found herself primarily only speaking with Mr. Woodhouse or Mrs. Weston. As if he had some particular spite against her, Mr. Curt Wild intervened every time either Emma or Lord Slade took even one step in her direction.

Eventually, the night grew late enough that Lord Slade approached Emma and gave her a particularly deep bow before explaining that he needed to turn to his rest, as his composing habits required that he rise quite early in the morning to write. Emma was all smiles and understanding, until Lord Slade told her he wished to farewell his host as well. While Emma was looking around the room, Amanda approached them, glad of the excuse to finally come near Lord Slade. “Your father is in the other parlour,” she told Emma. “I could take you to him, if you would like,” she added, looking at Lord Slade.

“That would be most delightful,” he replied, smiling at her with an intensity that set her cheeks ablaze.

Emma took Amanda’s arm. “Let us go find him together, then,” she said, giving Lord Slade a particularly unbelievable smile.

To Amanda’s surprise, their trio became a quartet as they were leaving the parlour, because Mr. Curt Wild joined them without a word of explanation. They must have looked quite the strange sight, entering the small, pink-walled parlour where Mr. Woodhouse was dozing in a chair by the fire.

“Is it really cold enough to merit sitting so close to the fire?” Mr. Curt Wild asked, shaking his head.

“Not everyone is from Yorkshire,” Lord Slade said, with a light laugh.

“Let me try to rouse him,” Emma said, before hastily making her way to her father’s side.

As they waited, Lord Slade seemed quite bored, until his attention was became arrested by something on one of the walls. Only as he approached it did Amanda realise to her horror that it was the portrait Emma had painted of her. How humiliating that it should be seen by someone as refined as Lord Slade! “What a curious painting,” he commented, once he stood in front of it. “Most unlike the others around it.”

“Oh, Lord Slade, do not—please do not waste your time on that silly thing!” Emma exclaimed, rushing away from her father’s side. “It is only a frivolous work of my own hand. It was simple vanity that led me to have it framed and placed on the wall beside the work of so many more talented painters.”

Lord Slade nodded, without looking away from the painting. “Yes, that explains much,” he agreed. “The hand is certainly without suitable practice, but there is a germ of talent that could grow into something worthwhile, with enough effort. Yet what arrests my attention is this face. I could swear it was Miss Smith’s.”

Emma laughed uncomfortably. “Why, it most certainly is Miss Smith,” she assured him. There was a hint of insult in her voice.

“Ah, then we can have the ultimate test,” Lord Slade replied, before turning towards Amanda. “Would you do me the kindness of standing here beside the portrait?”

Amanda did as he asked, trying her very hardest to remain calm, even as his eyes pored over her face with a searching gaze that set her insides to quivering.

“The eyes are all wrong,” Lord Slade finally announced, turning back to the painting. “They have not the life or the tender, wavering gentility of the true article.”

Emma opened her mouth with a fierce expression, as if to defend herself, but then closed it again with an astonishingly meek word of agreement. Amanda felt that if her friend would not defend her own work, then it was her place to do so, and she pointed out with hesitating voice that the face was, after all, quite small in the painting, and even a trained artist would surely have had trouble doing better.

“Not at all,” Lord Slade said, smiling at her. “There are painters who quite excel in a true likeness at even a smaller scale than this.” He withdrew an object from his pocket that appeared to Amanda’s eyes to be a small watch. “I had this one painted quite recently. See how flawlessly the painter captured the eyes—every detail, in fact.”

He handed her the locket. It was made of beautifully engraved gold, with a heart on the outside surrounded by flowers. Realising the painting inside must be a portrait of the lady to whom he had given his heart made Amanda’s own heart sink in her breast. It took a great mustering of her courage to open it and see the face of the woman Lord Slade had decided was worthy of him.

To her astonishment, it was not a lady’s portrait at all: it was Lord Slade’s own image inside! And the likeness was truly a thing of great artistry. The eyes were the very mirror of truth, and even had the same charm and sparkle of the real eyes of the man who stood before her. “It is quite perfect,” Amanda said, barely able to tear her gaze away from the tiny miracle in her hands. “I would never have thought the hand of man capable of creating such beauty,” she added, as she forced herself to close it.

“Do you like it so much?” Lord Slade almost sounded surprised by the notion. “Why, then you must keep it,” he added, one of his hands closing her fingers around the locket.

“Keep it? Oh! No, I—I could not possibly accept such a gift!”

“I do insist,” Lord Slade said, leaning in closer and adding his other hand around her own. Then after a moment that was all too short, he laughed, and released her hands, turning to look at Mr. Curt Wild. “Ah, how I wish my painter was here at this moment to capture how she looks, her cheeks so enflamed with a pure maiden’s blush!”

Of course, that exclamation only made Amanda’s blush worse; her whole body felt as overpowered with heat as it might have if she was standing in the roaring fireplace behind Mr. Woodhouse.

“My Emma is quite a skilful painter,” Mr. Woodhouse suddenly interjected.

Emma laughed, but she did not look nearly as embarrassed as she professed to be, even as Lord Slade agreed with Mr. Woodhouse’s assessment, and assured the old man that he had just been admiring Miss Woodhouse’s handiwork. Then he and Mr. Curt Wild bade Mr. Woodhouse farewell, and were soon both leaving the party, despite Mrs. Weston’s protests that her step-son should stay to accompany her back to Randalls.

Amanda barely noticed any of the rest of the goings-on that night. All she could do was sit down and gaze wonderingly at the tiny, beautiful painting in her hands.

*******

When Arthur had taken the position as an apprentice apothecary, he had expected the long gruelling hours looking after patients, the meticulous work of mixing medications, and the drudgery of cleaning up after his master. He had not expected to be turned into Mr. Perry’s errand boy. Delivering prescribed physics to patients was one thing, but being asked to return books he had borrowed was another thing entirely. And yet what had he just done but return a book to Mr. Cox? What a menial task for someone who was supposedly being trained for such a vital profession!

The night was already grown quite dark by the time he was returning and passing by the bakery. To Arthur’s surprise, Mrs. Wallis stepped out in the street and stopped him. “Could I ask you a favour, young man?” she asked. “My boy left behind one of the parcels he was to deliver earlier. I can pay you for your trouble,” she added, holding out a single ha’penny along with a parcel that appeared to contain a single loaf of bread.

Arthur was attempting to form a polite refusal when Mrs. Wallis continued. “I know Colfax is terribly out of your way, but what will people say of me if I fail to provide Lord Slade with the bread he requested?”

“I’ll take it,” Arthur said, accepting the package and the meagre pay. He had yet to see Lord Slade himself, and he was quite eager to do so. The young ladies in town had been quarrelling—ever so demurely, of course—ever since his arrival was made known as to whether he or Mr. Curt Wild was the more handsome young man. Arthur was quite excited to see what fellow could ever challenge Mr. Curt Wild’s right to be called the finest looking man in the kingdom.

During the long, dark walk to Colfax, Arthur mentally reproved himself for being fool enough to accept the errand. Of course he would never lay eyes on Lord Slade in this manner! He would only see some servant in the kitchens, never Lord Slade himself. Especially considering this was the night that Hartfield was holding a dinner-party in his honour. Lord Slade would not even be at home.

Arthur continued to berate himself for the entire lengthy walk to Colfax, at least until he came within sight of the manor. Then he began to study its every aspect, his eyes searching every lit window, looking for some hint that perhaps the Woodhouses had ended their party early and Lord Slade had already returned home. He had nearly reached the house when he heard an approaching carriage behind him. Even hastening out of the road, Arthur barely managed to avoid being trampled by the horses.

The carriage pulled up in front of the door to the manor, and stood there, horses pawing the ground, as its passengers alighted. Then the carriage drove off again, and Arthur was delighted to see Mr. Curt Wild standing there, watching it go. Only after Arthur’s heart was through leaping at the sight of him did he notice the other man. Similar in height and build, and with a refined elegance that few in the world could ever possess, he simply had to be Brian Stoningham, Lord Slade. And Arthur could easily understand why the ladies in the town were torn in their admiration between them. Where Mr. Curt Wild had a ruggedness to his features, Lord Slade had a beauty rarely seen among men. Arthur would be hard pressed to say which of them was truly the more attractive to the eye.

Once the carriage had disappeared around the side of the manor, Lord Slade turned to look at Mr. Curt Wild, and his fine features contorted into an unpleasant frown. “You were astonishingly rude at the party,” he said, his voice cold enough that it made Arthur halt in his tracks as he had been walking (without even meaning to) closer to them ever since the carriage had halted in front of the door.

“I did nothing wrong,” Mr. Curt Wild insisted with an edge of anger.

“What can you possibly have against Miss Smith that you would work so hard to keep me from speaking to her?”

“Why would you _want_ to speak to her? She’s an empty-headed female—and an illegitimate one at that.”

“That is reason not to form an alliance with her, not reason to treat her so cruelly. She is a pretty young thing, and I enjoy the company of attractive people. Do not wrong both her and me by attempting to prevent me from doing so.”

“Is that why you gave her that portrait? Because you were cross with me?” Mr. Curt Wild sounded positively upset.

“Why should I not, when it pleased her so greatly?”

“Because you said you had it painted for _me_!”

Lord Slade laughed, and set a hand on the other man’s shoulder, so close to his neck that it was brushing aside hair. “My dear Curt, are you jealous?”

A snapping twig broke into their conversation, and shattered Arthur out of the reverie that had caused him to advance towards them without thinking about it. “Who’s there?” Mr. Curt Wild shouted. “What do you want?”

Clearing his throat uncomfortably and hoping his face was not too red, Arthur moved closer still, into the lit area around the manor. “Ah…Mrs. Wallis from the bakery sent me with this loaf that was ordered…” he said, terrified that his voice would break.

“That answers one question, but not the other,” Lord Slade said, turning away from his friend to look at Arthur more closely. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I—I’m—my name is Arthur Stuart. I…I’m nobody. I, um, I work as an apprentice to Mr. Perry, the apothecary, and—”

Suddenly, both men were smiling at him, and Lord Slade gestured him closer. “That is delightful news,” he said. “Do you think you could do me a favour, young Arthur?”

Arthur nodded eagerly. “Any thing at all,” he promised.

“I do suffer from the worst headaches, and I am nearly out of the laudanum I use to treat them, but a man in my position hesitates to inform too many people of his weaknesses. Do you think you could provide me with some without having to tell your master who you need it for?”

“Yes, that should be no trouble,” Arthur agreed, smiling with an almost giddy delight. “Mr. Perry trusts me to supply the simple physics to patients whose needs are already known.”

“An impressive responsibility for such a young man,” Mr. Curt Wild commented, moving so close to Arthur that his heart accelerated to the point where he feared it might burst. “You must be quite dependable,” he added, as he took the loaf from Arthur’s hands, his strong, smooth fingers brushing against Arthur’s chapped skin.

“Oh—I…I’m nothing special…”

“Surely that has yet to be determined,” Lord Slade said, with a warm smile, before turning to his companion and suggesting they get inside out of the chill night air.

Within moments, Arthur was standing alone in the drive, staring at the door that had closed behind the two most magnetic men he had ever seen. His heart was still racing, and as he made his way back towards Mr. Perry’s house, he tried to calm it down by reminding himself that there was no possible way that two such fine gentlemen were anything like _him_.

And, of course, even if they _were_ like him, that would do Arthur no good; if they had any such feelings for men, they surely had those feelings for each other, with none left over for a pathetic child like Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid the location the movie chose for them to hang up the portrait of Miss Smith left this scene very awkward. In the book, it was directly over the mantel, very centrally located where it would have been quite easy for Brian to see it. But the movie (among all its other flaws) made all the homes way too big, and probably showed more interior rooms than the house in the novel would have had altogether. (Emma is described as an heiress of thirty thousand pounds, not three hundred thousand, after all!)


	4. Chapter 4

When Amanda arrived at Hartfield early in the afternoon after the dinner-party, she found Emma frowning at a bit of paper on which she had written up various little notes. Amanda did not even have to ask what was upsetting her before Emma explained the whole situation. Mr. Curt Wild, she said, had asked her to help him plan the ball at the Crown Inn, since she, too, had lamented how little opportunity anyone had to dance in Highbury. And yet when she sent to Randalls this morning to ask for a conference between them on the subject, what response did she get but that he had already left for the day? “The man tests my patience abominably!” Emma added, with most unladylike rancour. “I feel the most dread pity for whatever woman should have the misfortune to marry him!”

Given that all of Highbury assumed that would be Emma herself, Amanda did not resist a small laugh. “Perhaps he has gone to Colfax again,” she suggested. “We could call there and see.”

“That does seem likely,” Emma agreed, looking thoughtful. “And Lord Slade  _ did _ request that we call on him, so it would not be entirely wasted time if even if he is elsewhere.” She smiled, and rose to her feet. “I shall have James get the coach ready.”

Amanda’s relief filled her. Given Emma’s surprising distaste for Lord Slade, she had been dreadfully unsure how she could suggest that they call on him, and yet she was so very desperate to do so! The portrait in the locket she now wore about her neck was beautiful, but it was no substitute for the divine presence of the man himself. She was too excited to come up with anything to say on the ride to Colfax, and merely nodded along with everything Emma was saying.

The solitary time Amanda spoke in the carriage was as they neared Colfax, and passed a handsome youth walking in the other direction. “Was that Mr. Perry’s apprentice?” Amanda asked, sure she recognised him from Christmas night.

“Was it? I was not paying attention,” Emma admitted, glancing back along the road. She shrugged as she returned her gaze to Amanda. “Hard to tell from behind. It could be him. The hair is about right. I did not realise you had met him. Such a strange, quiet lad, that one. He seems nice enough, and yet in some ineffable way there is simply some thing not quite right about him. I often wonder if perhaps he entered into his apprenticeship to escape a failed or forbidden romance with some young lady for whom he is still pining away.”

Emma was still cataloguing her reasons to think so by the time the coach pulled up in front of Colfax. The door was answered by the Whitaker’s butler this time, who informed them that Lord Slade was at present in the drawing room with Mr. Curt Wild, and that he would announce their arrival at once.

Both gentlemen came to the front hall to greet them. “Such a pleasure to see you both again so soon,” Lord Slade said. “I shall have the kitchen prepare tea and cakes.” The butler not having returned with him, he had to leave the hall to impart the orders, leaving his three guests alone.

“I was not expecting to find you here,” Emma claimed, looking at Mr. Curt Wild. “Were you consulting Lord Slade about the plans for the ball?”

“No, no, I just came here to dine with him. Brian would never admit it, but he hates to dine alone. And he has hired one of the finest chefs in Europe. Trained in the French court before the Revolution, or so he claims.” Mr. Curt Wild laughed. “I was going to call on you when I was through here, of course,” he added, taking Emma’s elbow. “The ball will need your sensible mind to plan it, or I am sure it will be the most dreadful disaster.”

By the time Lord Slade returned, Emma and Mr. Curt Wild were so intently discussing the plans for the ball that Lord Slade told them they should sit in the parlour so they could talk at more leisure. “And while they are doing that, would you care to accompany me to the gardens, Miss Smith? The Whitakers have one of the finest gardens in England.”

Amanda gladly accepted the offer before Emma could attempt to stop her. Lord Slade led her through several small rooms to emerge from a pair of glass double doors onto a veranda with a short stair that led down into the garden. They walked through the gardens without saying any thing but to comment on its beauty for several minutes before Lord Slade suggested that they take a seat on a nearby shaded bench, to protect Amanda’s fair skin from too much exposure to the harsh sun.

“These gardens are, in truth, one of the reasons I wanted to come here,” he admitted, after sitting down close beside her. “I met the Whitakers last winter at Bath, and I was quite entirely charmed by their tales of their garden, and how much work their gardeners have put in over the years.” He laughed. “And having heard Curt speak so often about the home town he had never known…how could I resist the temptation to come and see the place myself?”

“Have you known Mr. Curt Wild long?”

“Oh, yes, for years. A cousin of mine owns the estate alongside Enscombe.” Lord Slade smiled, wistful and nostalgic. “When I was still nothing more than a boy, he would already write me letters about the goings on at Enscombe, and the wilful nephew that the Wilds had adopted as their own. Of course, he and I were both grown by the time I was finally able to meet him in person, but I often feel as if I have always known him. I am sure you must understand what I mean.”

“Of course,” Amanda agreed, nodding. “Even though Miss Woodhouse and I only first spoke to each other this past fall, every one in Highbury has heard every thing about her since she was a child.” She sighed sadly. “I am sure they have all heard all there is to tell about me, as well.”

“I doubt any one could know all there is to tell about you,” Lord Slade said, taking her hand in both of his. “Do not discount your own worth so lightly. If I could not see the worlds swirling within your eyes, I would not bother speaking with you.”

Amanda tried to find some way to respond, but her heart fluttered up into her throat, and she could do nothing but murmur inaudibly.

“Curt tells me that this Mrs. Goddard with whom you reside runs a school for young ladies, and it was in that school you were raised,” Lord Slade said. “What sort of education were you given there?”

“No kind at all, really,” Amanda sighed. “Mrs. Goddard taught us the niceties of our language, and how to obey the rules of society, and did all she could to remind us that we are young ladies and have no business with thoughts or any deeper issues of the world. It was our duty, our teachers always impressed upon us, to find a husband and marry, and that no man wanted a woman who could think for herself. We were taught just enough of history and literature that we would not be entirely ignorant, and just enough of mathematics that we would know if we were cheated by what few servants our future husbands would be able to afford, and little else. We were taught nothing of other lands or what sort of people reside in them.”

“Ah, then you have received the same education as that given at the finest of England’s public schools!”

Amanda laughed. “What a wicked thing to say!”

“I view any day as utterly failed if it has not allowed me to be wicked at least once.” He smiled most becomingly. “You should try a little wickedness, Miss Smith. It is most invigorating to the spirit.”

“I don’t know if I could.”

“Try a simple little wickedness,” Lord Slade suggested, squeezing her hand. “Some insignificant thing easily forgiven if you should have the misfortune to be caught. An inconsequential little lie—or an extra serving of your favourite food when there is not enough for all those at the table.”

“Well, I…” Amanda laughed. “Would it be a wickedness if I said I was going to, and then did not?”

“It would be more wicked to yourself than to any one else. Come, do not rob yourself of pleasure so readily! The world works quite hard to rob us all of pleasure, and does not need the assistance.”

Lord Slade spent some time pacing before her and imagining up little wickednesses that Amanda might try, but most were so fanciful that she would never have the opportunity even if she had the courage. Listening to him and watching the passion that lit up his eyes from within was beyond exhilarating, and Amanda found herself constantly smiling and laughing from pure delight. After some time, though, a sudden thought struck her. “You know,” she said, during a brief pause in his fancies, “I believe I do know a way I could be a little bit wicked.”

“Ah, pray tell, Miss Smith!” Lord Slade sat down by her side again, and clasped her hand. “I am quite curious to hear this wickedness born of your own mind.”

“It would not be wicked for every one, you must understand. For most people, it would be perfectly acceptable. But Mrs. Goddard has strictly forbidden any copies of  _ Childe Maxwell’s Pilgrimage _ to enter her home, and Miss Woodhouse tells me that Mr. Knightley feels it is not appropriate for young ladies to read, so if I could read it as I wish to, that would be a little wicked of me. Only the bookseller has no copy…”

Lord Slade smiled at her sweetly. “I am honoured to have my work forbidden from such an establishment as Mrs. Goddard’s school. If I was accepted in such a house, I would be quite worried that I had not established my own true character and mind as I wished. I shall send off to London and have a copy brought for you by to-morrow evening.” He looked off towards the house. “We seem to still have a while yet before the tea will be ready. Perhaps I could recite the first canto for you.”

“Nothing could please me more,” Amanda assured him.

In the beautiful, sheltered garden setting, Lord Slade’s recitation took on a life and intimacy that the formal setting in the Coles’ parlour had utterly denied it. His words were filled with passion, and his eyes smouldered as Childe Maxwell lamented his past sins and sought for a more noble future. Whether it was his animation or her expectations going in, Amanda found she was having no trouble understanding the verses this time. The recitation was still going when a servant came out to inform them that the tea was on, but Lord Slade went on a little while longer, refusing to stop—as he explained afterwards—in the middle of a stanza.

Then they went inside and had a very jolly tea, with most of the conversation around the table being Emma and Mr. Curt Wild explaining all they had decided about the ball so far. After that, Lord Slade regaled them all with tales of the beauty of Colfax’s gardens. “I plan to ask my favourite painter from London to come out here in the coming days and paint a few studies of the gardens for me,” he added, before turning to Emma and smiling at her. “Perhaps you would like to join him in painting the gardens? From what I saw last night, you plainly excel at landscapes. I am certain you could do these gardens quite a service.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed ever so slightly crimson. “Perhaps I could come by some afternoon, but my father does not like me spending too much time outdoors. He is constantly afraid I will catch a chill.”

“Even under the warmth of the spring sun?” Mr. Curt Wild laughed. “Your father’s health must be even worse than my aunt’s, if he is so paralysed by his need to stay by the fire at all times.”

Emma’s laugh was forced and uncomfortable. “He simply worries. It is nothing so dire as that.”

Despite a bit more teasing from Mr. Curt Wild about Mr. Woodhouse’s paranoia regarding health, it was soon agreed that Emma would bring her paints to Colfax on the next fine afternoon and do a few light studies. Amanda was delighted by that decision, and prayed that the days would remain sunny and beautiful.

However, after tea, Emma insisted that they return to Hartfield before her father could begin to worry about her. It was a disappointment to leave so soon, but Amanda was buoyed by hopes of returning the next day, which maintained her spirits delightfully for the carriage ride back to Hartfield.

“I am terribly worried about the ball,” Emma sighed, after Colfax had disappeared around a bend behind them.

“Why? It sounded as though you have made lovely plans for it.”

“Yes, but do you recall when Mr. Weston first heard the news his son was coming to Highbury to see him? The news was very clear that he could only come for a fortnight.” She shook her head. “He said he has sent off to his uncle asking permission to stay longer, but if he does not receive that permission, we shall not even be able to hold the ball.”

“You could hold it before he leaves, surely.”

“We won’t be able to rent the Crown Inn until next weekend, which is absolutely  _ days _ too late!”

Amanda set a hand on Emma’s arm. “It will be fine,” she said, glad to be given a chance to reassure her friend for once. “After all, Mr. Curt Wild is a man of three and twenty. How could he be so commanded by his uncle as to be unable to stay a few days longer in his own father’s home? It is quite absurd!”

*******

Making his third visit to Colfax, Arthur felt both more at ease and a bit concerned. He had been welcomed so warmly last time that he honestly felt more comfortable at Colfax than he did at Mr. Perry’s house. But to have been requested to bring a second bottle of laudanum already was alarming. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing. After all, this bottle was for Mr. Curt Wild, not for Lord Slade. But Mr. Curt Wild was the picture of health in every way! It was hard to imagine him suffering from anything, even the slightest headache, no matter how frail his aunt’s health was said to be. (Besides, she was the wife of his mother’s brother, and thus of no blood kin to him! And his father, Mr. Weston, was quite the healthiest and most vigorous man in Highbury, to such an extent that Arthur was not sure Mr. Perry had ever been called to attend to his health even once!) And he said he wanted it delivered to him at Colfax so his father would not find out, but if he genuinely suffered from headaches then why should it matter to him if his father knew?

In his heart, Arthur was fearful that he understood the reasons all too well, and that they meant he was doing something terrible by acceding to their demands. But how could he ever refuse them?

When he arrived at Colfax, Arthur was informed that the gentlemen were in the gardens by the pond, and that they were expecting him. Rather than being allowed into the house, he was directed to go around the side of the house. Colfax’s gardens were a bit of a maze, so once he was inside them, Arthur soon ended up following the sound of the conversation in order to find Mr. Curt Wild and Lord Slade.

“Considering the plans  _ you _ have made, I see no possible excuse for you to think  _ I _ am acting rashly.” Lord Slade’s words were the first Arthur could make out clearly as he approached.

“It is completely different. There were extenuating circumstances. And she comes from a respectable family.”

“Does she really?” Lord Slade laughed. “The daughter of a poor house and a common soldier?”

“They were not always so poor as they are now. And he was a lieutenant, not a rank-and-file soldier.” Arthur was so close by now that he could hear the heavy sigh that followed. “It is not as though it matters. I should have known my aunt would find a way to intervene.”

“Surely she ought to prefer it to the alternative.”

Mr. Curt Wild was still laughing as Arthur came around the side of a hedge and drew into sight of the pair of them. They were sitting at a wrought iron table in a small gazebo built on a tiny peninsula that projected into the pond. “Ah, some good news at last!” he exclaimed, on spotting Arthur. “Come join us!”

Smiling in a way that he feared looked downright giddy, Arthur was eager to comply, taking a seat next to Mr. Curt Wild and setting his parcel down on the table.

“Would you care to join us for luncheon?” Lord Slade asked. “It would be a delight to have you at the table.”

Arthur’s cheeks heated awfully. “I wish I could, but my master is expecting me back.”

“He must need more help tending to another one of Mr. Woodhouse’s imaginary ailments!” Curt Wild laughed.

“Oh, they are not all imaginary,” Arthur assured him. “Mr. Woodhouse has spent so long sitting by the fire, you see, that he suffers from terrible chills to be removed from its heat, no matter the time of year. I believe he must be part salamander.”

Both gentlemen laughed, and Curt Wild reached over to cup the back of Arthur’s head in his hand, tousling his hair affectionately in the process. “Really, you must stay,” he insisted. “Tell Mr. Perry that your patient demanded your attention beyond just the delivery of the medicine. It is not a word of it false, after all!”

“I suppose he would accept that,” Arthur agreed. “I would certainly far rather remain here.”

“The matter is settled, then.” From somewhere beside the table, Lord Slade produced a silver bell, and rang it loudly above his head. A few minutes later, one of the servants came scurrying out to see what he wanted. “We will be having a third for luncheon,” Lord Slade informed him. “Have the table prepared accordingly.”

Curt Wild’s hand slipped down from Arthur’s head to his shoulder. “Here, Brian, tell the boy that story you were telling me last night. The one about what you and Jack got up to in Swisserland.” He leaned his head in closer to Arthur’s. “You will get a laugh out of this, I assure you.”

He was not mistaken. The tale was scandalous and bordered on bawdiness in places, but it was thoroughly entertaining, and they all laughed with delight at its conclusion. It was the type of escapade that only the wealthiest could go on and live to tell the tale: anyone lesser than Lord Slade would surely have ended up jailed, if not put to death. Soon after the tale’s conclusion, the servant returned to inform them that luncheon had been set out for them in the dining room.

It was far more grand than any dinner in Arthur’s house (or Mr. Perry’s) had ever been, yet Lord Slade felt the need to apologise for the simplicity and paucity of the fare. “You know I am always more interested in the company than the food at any meal,” Mr. Curt Wild assured him, giving Lord Slade’s hand a brief squeeze that squeezed Arthur’s heart as well.

Once they were seated at the table, Curt Wild turned his attention back to Arthur. “Where did you say you come from?” he asked. “You sound like you are more from my part of the world than from around here.”

“Your part of the world,” Lord Slade repeated mockingly. “What rubbish. We are all from the same part of the world—England.”

Arthur laughed. “I’m from Lancashire,” he informed Curt Wild. “Originally.”

“Oh, what a pity. Awful place, Lancashire.”

“You truly are a wretch!” Lord Slade exclaimed, laughing. “What if the boy takes you seriously?”

From the way Mr. Curt Wild was laughing, Arthur would never have believed him to be serious. “It’s all right,” Arthur assured Lord Slade. “Lancashire  _ can _ be quite awful.” For someone like Arthur, all places could be, all too easily. And yet they could also be so very wonderful…

“Not like Surrey is the paradise some people would make it out to be, either,” Curt Wild said, shaking his head. “I am told it gets beastly hot in the summers.”

“Compared to Lancashire—or Yorkshire—yes, it is quite hot in the summer months. Last August was nearly more than I could take.” In fact, it had left Arthur wondering if he should sign on to the army and request to be shipped off to serve in the northernmost extreme of the Canadian colonies. Thankfully, he had thought the better of the idea.

Of course, Lord Slade had to entertain them further with tales of lands that truly became beastly hot in the summers; tales of his trips to Italy, Greece and Egypt. His tales—with a few competing tales from Mr. Curt Wild of his more tame travels within England—took up the rest of the meal and then some.

When the last story was told, Curt Wild sighed and got to his feet. “I am sorry to say it, but I have to leave myself. I promised Miss Woodhouse I would be by this afternoon to discuss the plans for the ball.” He shook his head sadly. “Such a pity all that planning is sure to go to waste now.”

“Is that a pity?” Lord Slade asked, sounding mystified. “Personally, I have no desire to be tormented by a surfeit of provincial dancing.”

“I happen to enjoy it.”

Lord Slade shrugged his shoulders as he also rose to his feet. “You will be back to-night, will you not?”

“I will try. My father will be expecting me to dine at Randalls. But I shall try to come back here after dinner,” Mr. Curt Wild promised, taking Lord Slade’s hand and pressing it to his breast. “You know I will do everything I can to be here with you.”

“I know.”

After that tender moment, the luncheon party—such as it was—dispersed. Mr. Curt Wild’s horse was prepared for him, but he opted to walk alongside it rather than ride, giving Arthur the thrill of a little more time spent in his company before they would have to part ways at the end of the long lane leading to the manor. For some time they walked on in silence, with Curt Wild clutching the small parcel with his bottle of laudanum in it and merely staring at the road in front of him. Then he sighed, and cast a glance at Colfax as it was receding behind them.

“Here, Arthur, do you know Miss Amanda Smith?”

“Not well, but we have spoken on a few occasions. Why?”

Curt Wild frowned. “Would you say that she is the sort of girl who would try to trick a man into marrying her against his own best interests?”

Arthur could not help staring at him for a moment, then he smiled weakly. “I do not think she is, no. But I do not understand the question at all. What—why would you worry that she was such a woman?”

“She has been spending all too much time with Brian in the last few days. It has been his idea—he  _ said _ it has been his idea—but I do not want to lose him to—I do not want to see him end up in an unhappy, uneven marriage.” His voice was raw with emotion, and his hands were trembling at his sides.

“I do not think you need to worry,” Arthur assured him, setting a gentle hand on his arm. “She is overall a rather timid, retiring young woman. I cannot imagine that she would—or even could—force Lord Slade into anything contrary to his interests.”

Curt Wild sighed again. “I hope you are right,” he said. “But I will feel better about it if you could keep watch over them when I return to Enscombe in a few days.”

“There is nothing I could do to interfere to protect him,” Arthur pointed out.

“I understand that. But let me know about it if anything happens.”

“I will, I promise.”

Curt Wild thanked him profusely, then mounted his horse and rode off towards Hartfield, leaving Arthur alone with everything that had just happened. He had no doubts now. He really was not the only one; it was clear to him that Lord Slade and Mr. Curt Wild were as much in love with each other as any married couple were—no, probably much more so! It was hard to be sure which of them he envied most, but ultimately he probably envied them equally, for having been lucky enough to discover and fall in love with each other.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first scene is, of course, the one where I completely discarded the movie's version. Before writing it, I reread the one in the book, then put in the DVD to see how the movie handled it...and long before it was over, I was deeply pitying Ewan for having had to deliver such soul-crushingly bad dialog that had been purposefully constructed to work to the direct *opposite* of Frank Churchill's intent in the scene. So I went back to the book to the extent that I actually borrowed a lot of the dialog. Like most of it.
> 
> Oh, and I'm not sure if I managed to make this clear in any earlier scene, but it's established early on in the novel that Mr. Weston had met his son many times, usually about once a year, but always in London. (Which is typically what any of the characters mean when they use the words "in town".)

The whole time he was preparing to return to Enscombe, Curt had pondered his options. Gossip could be a bitter and dangerous foe, and Highbury was a small town that was utterly ruled by it. In light of everything else that might happen in his absence, perhaps the wagging tongues of the idle should not have been his chief concern, but he was all too well aware of the possible results if any rumours should spread to any friends of his aunt and uncle. And yet on the other hand, might not gossip also be turned to his advantage to help forestall the worst of the damages that his absence might encourage?

It was with that thought in mind that he entered his final destination, the parlour at Hartfield, and sat down to have one last chat with Miss Woodhouse. Of course, once seated, it was hard to know where to begin. He could not be sure just how much she had come to suspect. To listen to his father or Mrs. Weston (but especially the latter), Miss Woodhouse had a preternatural ability to read the hearts of others. What did Miss Woodhouse think she could read in Curt’s heart? If she only saw the shallow behaviour he had put on for his father’s sake, and thought him in love with her, then…but no, surely someone as perceptive as Miss Woodhouse had not been fooled by such an uneven display. Curt’s encounters with his father in town had been just enough for him to have always been certain that his father was a bit simple, but now that he had spent more time with him, he realised the man to be a complete imbecile who would easily be fooled by absolutely any thing. Of course Miss Woodhouse did not think he was in love with her just because his behaviour had been more than enough to convince his father. But had she perceived the other deception he had been playing at, the foundations—hopefully subtle ones—upon which the people of Highbury were supposed to at some future date think a happy and deeply determined marriage were being built upon? Or had she seen past that in the week since the party and realised where Curt’s heart _truly_ belonged?

If it was the latter, he would be in desperate straits if she would not agree to guard his secret and assist him in creating the fiction that he was someday going to need his father and uncle to accept. But what lady would help with such a fiction? Perhaps if he explained to her _why_ he and Miss Fairfax had entered into their arrangement…

Upon realising that he must have been sitting there for five minutes without saying a word, Curt did his best to produce typical small-talk on the sorrows of leave-taking and his certainty that the worsening of his aunt’s health that had required his immediate return would surely not be long in recovery, but his words rang hollowly in his ears, all except when he assured Miss Woodhouse that he would be trying with zeal to return to Highbury as soon as possible. But how to return? That was the question. His aunt had put a stop to their spring-time trips to London a few years back, when rumours began to reach her ears that Curt was finding too many handsome new friends in town…

“Our poor ball must be quite given up,” Miss Woodhouse commented sadly.

Curt agreed with what he hoped was characteristic over-embellishment of the sad fact. No matter what Brian said, he really had wanted to see that ball. Ladies were not good for much, but they were a delight to dance with. He was able, at least, to assure her that if he managed to return to Highbury, the ball would still be held, no matter what.

Miss Woodhouse drove the conversation for a little while, until she asked what was no doubt the crucial question for her: “And you must be off this very morning?”

Curt assured her that was the case. His father would be meeting him there at Hartfield, and they would have one last brief walk together, returning to Randalls, and then Curt would be sent back to be enslaved to the caprices of his aunt’s health and malice. When Miss Woodhouse rebuked him for not spending even five minutes with his “friends” Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates, it was almost enough to make Curt laugh. Perhaps he had done a better job at his deception than he had thought.

“No,” he assured her, “I have already called there. I was passing the door on the way back from Colfax, and I thought it better. It was a right thing to do.”

“Of course you went to Colfax _first_ ,” Miss Woodhouse said quietly, an iciness entering her voice. She really did detest Brian, didn’t she? Was that for the better or the worse in this case? Hopefully it was for the best; if she hated Brian, surely she would not let her dearest friend form any kind of lasting attachment to him.

Unsure how to react to her words, Curt thought it might be best to continue on as if he had not heard them, since they were so quiet. “I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out, and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then—”

Finding he had talked himself into a corner that allowed no easy avenue towards his actual point, Curt rose to his feet, and paced across the room, wondering how to divert the topic to what he knew he needed to say. His life had suddenly become quite the warped tapestry, with all the players clinging to different threads, but he could not be sure who held which one. “Miss Woodhouse, I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion,” he started, before turning back to look at her, hoping her face might give him some hint as to precisely _which_ possible suspicion she was holding fast to. Did she, as his father did, think him growing attached to her? Did she see what _he_ wanted her to, and think him in love with Miss Fairfax? Or did she see the truth of his love for Brian?

Miss Woodhouse’s face told him nothing but that she was uncomfortable. That, unfortunately, would likely have been the case no matter what. Except, perhaps, if she thought him in love with _her_. Perhaps.

After a few more awkward moments, Miss Woodhouse smiled with a tight control and said “You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then.”

What was Curt supposed to make of _that?_ Did it mean she did believe his heart to belong to Miss Fairfax? Or did she mean he was right to visit Brian? But if she did mean that, did it mean anything that she meant it, or did she only mean as the untitled friend of a baron? Or did her statement indicate that she believed him about to profess a romantic attachment to _her_ and wished to prevent him from doing so?

Hardly knowing how to react, he sighed, and walked back over to sit near her again. He tried again to say _something_ , but how was he to explain—on what _level_ was he to explain? Hoping the movement might restore his ability to speak, Curt rose once more and went back over to the window. Perhaps his not being so close would prompt _her_ to say something about whatever it was she believed.

But no, his father arrived before Miss Woodhouse could say a word. From that untimely arrival, all that could be said was the upright and open, the promises to think often of Highbury—how could he _not_ think of Highbury while Brian was there, after all—and assurances that Mrs. Weston had promised to write him often to keep him abreast of all that went on in the village and at Randalls. He had expected Miss Woodhouse to offer to write as well, but she did not. Perhaps she had been hoping for a declaration of love and was hurt to think his heart belonged to Miss Fairfax instead?

If so, how very hurt she would be if she learned the real truth!

*******

The day outside the shop was every bit as dismal as Arthur’s heart. When Curt Wild left Highbury to return to his relations in Yorkshire, Arthur had for a single day been consoled by the fact that absolutely everyone else in the village felt the absence as clearly—if not as sharply—as Arthur himself did. Every tongue had been wagging on the subject, and on how sad it made them all feel, and how desperately they hoped he would soon return, perhaps drawn by his plain attachment to a certain fine young lady of Highbury.

And yet how soon did the name Mr. Curt Wild cease to pass over their lips! Because the people of Highbury were petals blown about in even the lightest breeze, they had nothing else on their minds after Mr. Elton returned with his new bride in tow. Arthur had only caught a glimpse of her in church on Sunday, but he hadn’t thought her anything remarkable to look at. Her clothes were elegant, but her face was not as pretty as that of Miss Smith, or Miss Woodhouse, or Miss Fairfax. The people in the village seemed to think she was the finest creature they had ever beheld, though, and very few of them seemed to think her fortune (accounts varied as to just how many thousands it was) had anything to do with Mr. Elton’s spontaneous affection for her.

All the pointless, frivolous attention being paid to the Eltons might not have bothered Arthur if he was not coming to feel the absence of Curt Wild as a genuine pain, a deep and bitter longing somewhere deep in his soul. It was a longing of which he was profoundly ashamed, considering that Curt Wild was so plainly and thoroughly in love with Lord Slade, and Lord Slade with him, but shame could not change what Arthur was feeling. It was nothing but a passing fancy, he hoped, the thrill of finally seeing other men like himself, and even better still seeing them united in a love that defied society and all its horrid constrictions.

All in all, this was the sort of day, and Arthur’s the sort of mood, that would have benefited from having duties that kept his mind occupied. If Mr. Perry had been giving him lessons, or had needed his assistance in tending to a patient, it would have let Arthur forget about Curt Wild, even if only for a little while. But Mr. Perry had no patients to see to-day, and preferred to spend this rare quiet day to himself, leaving Arthur to sit in the shop in case any of the people of the town should come in.

When someone finally did come in, it turned out to be Miss Smith, looking every bit as miserable as Arthur himself. “Can you recommend me something for a headache?” she asked, smiling at him weakly.

Just a month hence, Arthur would have felt no hesitation in answering her. But he was increasingly conscious of the fact that he had now twice given laudanum to men who most certainly did not need it. And the last thing Arthur needed on his conscience was turning an innocent young girl into an opium-eater! “What sort of headache is it?” he asked. Perhaps something less potent could cure it. “How did it come about?”

She sighed sadly. “Miss Woodhouse and I were just paying a visit to the Eltons,” she explained. “Miss Woodhouse was quite under the expectation that I was most dreadfully upset that he had married, and I could not bring myself to disappoint her completely, so I had to act as though I was quite sad indeed—and to make it ever so much worse, Mrs. Elton is every bit as tedious as Mr. Elton, if not more so!” She pressed the palm of one hand against her forehead. “My head revolts against everything I have done and said this entire afternoon.”

Arthur chuckled despite himself. “I do sympathise completely, Miss Smith, but I doubt that there is any medication as would help with that. May I suggest a nice cup of tea, perhaps with a little biscuit or a bit of cake, and some time alone with a good book? It would do much more for your head than any of our physics.”

While Miss Smith was laughing pleasantly at his advice so contrary to his professional interests, the door to the street opened again, admitting Brian Stoningham, Lord Slade. “Ah, I was not mistaken after all,” he said, smiling at Miss Smith. “I thought I perceived you coming in here.”

“Oh, Lord Slade!” All signs of fatigue disappeared from Miss Smith’s face at once.

“What brings you in here?” Lord Slade asked, casting a glance at the bottles lining the walls. “Surely you are not ill?”

Miss Smith laughed nervously, and assured him that she had only been suffering from a slight headache, which was now thoroughly cured by his presence. On being pressed for further details, she explained about the visit to the Eltons, leaving out any reference to Miss Woodhouse’s former desire to play matchmaker between Miss Smith and Mr. Elton, or just how tedious she found both the Eltons to be. “At least I was honestly able to say that they suited each other well,” she added, with another nervous laugh.

“Then she is as intolerable as her clothes are unfashionable?” Lord Slade surmised.

“Are they unfashionable?” Arthur asked, despite himself. “I thought they looked very elegant and expensive.”

“Of elegance there was perhaps some moderate measure. A modicum of expense, as with any made clothes. But fashionable? Not in the least,” Lord Slade insisted, shaking his head. “Those clothes were cut in a paltry and misguided imitation of the fashion, missing the mark in all the most important measures. If that young woman was dressing in such a manner in as fashionable a locale as Bath, then it can be seen as no surprise that she could do no better than a country vicar for a husband.” He laughed. “If your head ails you because you have been exposed to such a woman, Miss Smith, the best cure for you is fresh, clear air and the beauty of nature. If I may usurp this young man’s prerogative, I would prescribe you a long walk in the gardens at Colfax.”

“I think I should enjoy such a treatment immensely,” Miss Smith agreed, with a large, delighted smile.

Only after they left the shop together did Arthur realise that what he had just witnessed was precisely the sort of thing that Curt Wild had asked him to prevent if possible. And yet not a word of it had been Miss Smith’s idea. Surely it was not Arthur’s place to interfere with Lord Slade’s own intentions and desires?

Should he write to tell about what he had just seen? It might have been nothing, after all. Lord Slade was just showing the girl kindness, not expressing any kind of romantic attachment. Or was he? Arthur had never really witnessed such things personally, so he was not entirely sure how to tell the difference.

After some consideration, he decided not to write until he had something worth writing about. As long as it would take the letter to reach Yorkshire, what did it even matter, anyway?

*******

Amanda was sitting in the parlour at Hartfield, trying to think of some way to suggest what she knew Emma would resist at all costs: that they should go to Colfax. The weather—as if sharing Highbury’s mourning that Mr. Curt Wild had returned to Enscombe—had been filled with cloudy afternoons and rain showers ever since Lord Slade made his suggestion that Emma should accompany his favourite painter in doing studies of the Whitakers’ gardens. Perhaps, like Highbury itself, Emma was still missing the frivolous gentleman, because she seemed particularly listless and agitated to-day, lacking her usual focus and poise.

“What would you say to us going somewhere this afternoon?” Amanda suggested timorously. “To enjoy the lovely weather.”

Emma sighed mournfully. “And where could we possibly go?”

Amanda bit her lip uneasily. What should she say? If she suggested Colfax, Emma would unquestionably accuse her of ulterior motives, and she would not be wrong to do so. “Well…I…am at a loss for suggestions …” An uncomfortable pause, in which Emma simply stared at her, expressionlessly expectant. “I did find a bit of a hole in my glove. I had thought of mending it, but perhaps it would be better to go to Ford’s and buy a new pair?”

“You should be more frugal than that,” Emma chastised her. “I can help you mend it if you need.”

Amanda shook her head. That was the last thing she needed or wanted! And she rather doubted a lady as fine as Emma Woodhouse knew how to mend a glove, in any event. Emma had servants to do that for her, something Amanda knew very well that _she_ would never have.

The silence in the parlour resumed its oppression. With the faintest edges of her senses, Amanda could just hear birds singing in the trees surrounding the manor, and she could imagine how lovely the sun and the light breeze must feel to all those lucky enough to be outside to enjoy them. But how could she convince her friend that they ought to step out of the rigid confines of her pre-ordered life?

Surprisingly, resolution came from the great world without the walls of Hartfield. The door sounded, and the Woodhouse butler came to bring Emma an envelope containing a short note, informing her as he did so that the bearer awaited her immediate reply outside. Emma read the note with an eager curiosity that soon turned into a pensive frown. “What am I to make of this?” she asked, looking at her butler even as she handed the note over to Amanda. “Did the gentleman come himself?”

“No, Miss Woodhouse. Merely a servant.”

Amanda turned her attention to the letter. “My Dear Miss Woodhouse,” it began, “In view of to-day’s most excellent weather, I humbly crave that you and your painting kit come to Colfax forthwith to preserve the beauty of the gardens on your canvas as you said you would nearly two weeks hence. Please bring the charming Miss Smith along with you—my coachman will fetch her from Mrs. Goddard’s if she is not presently at Hartfield—as there is someone here I wish for her to meet. Yours most impatiently, Brian Stoningham, Lord Slade.”

“I hate to reward his impertinence,” Emma said, her vexation plain in her voice and on her face, “but I wonder if it would seem terribly rude to refuse him.” She sighed. “What do you think, dear Amanda?”

“Every one in Highbury would think we were horribly rude if we did not answer his summons,” Amanda assured her, trying not to let her voice betray her excitement. He had not only asked for her specially, he had called her charming! The blessed honour of it was almost enough to entirely overwhelm her sensibilities.

Emma frowned, but nodded. “I suppose they would,” she agreed. “Do inform his servant that we will be out shortly.”

“Very good, Miss Woodhouse.”

Amanda helped Emma gather her paints and canvases together, and they both carried them outside, where Lord Slade’s carriage awaited them. The coachman helped them into the carriage, and they were soon headed off towards Colfax at a brisk trot. Emma continued to appear put out for the whole drive, though the closer they drew to Colfax, the more she began to admit—if quite grudgingly—that the weather truly was excellent that day, and that the gardens at Colfax were indeed well worthy of many studies, even by artists far more skilful than herself.

Lord Slade was awaiting them in the front hall when they arrived, and he greeted them both with a kiss on the hand, then led them through to the gardens, which teemed with new greenery nourished by all the recent rain. “Tea will be served in the gazebo later in the afternoon,” he informed them, “and in the mean time, I am sure you will find many places to prepare the most fine studies, Miss Woodhouse.” He turned towards Amanda so completely that he was nearly presenting his back to an obviously astonished Emma. “If you will accompany me to the trellis, Miss Smith, I wish to introduce you to a very accomplished friend of mine.”

“Gladly,” Amanda said, accepting his hand so he could lead her deeper into the gardens. Growing from the trellis were countless flowers with beautiful pale purple blooms. “Oh, how beautiful!” she couldn’t help exclaiming. “What kind of flowers are they?”

“Purple clematis,” an older man seated nearby said, making Amanda gasp. She had not noticed him there at all, being so focused on the flowers. But not only was he there, but an easel and canvas rested between him and the trellis.

“They are often known as Virgin’s Bower,” Lord Slade said, smiling at her, “in honour of Queen Elizabeth. All the more fitting for you, then, as she, too, had red hair. Though if her portraits were just, that hair framed a far less elegant face.”

Any elegance her face might possess surely had to have been ruined by the heat rising in her cheeks. Her blush provoked a rude laugh from the man seated nearby. “Her face will be more red than her hair at this rate,” he commented.

“You will give me your opinion only when I ask for it,” Lord Slade snapped at him so viciously that it made Amanda jump. “Do forgive him,” he added, turning back to Amanda with a surprisingly sweet smile, considering the anger he had displayed only moments earlier. “It is the unfortunate side effect of talent that it can breed an arrogant and unpleasant personality.” He laughed. “Though I am sure many would say the same about me.”

The other man grumbled something Amanda could not quite catch, but which seemed to be agreeing with that last statement in no uncertain terms.

“This gentleman is the one who painted that miniature portrait of me,” Lord Slade explained, “and I was hoping to have him capture your portrait as well, here under this trellis. If you are willing to permit me such a liberty?”

“Me?” Amanda’s heart was thrown into such disorder by the very notion that she feared she was on the edge of a swoon. How could such an important man want the portrait of someone so utterly insignificant as she was?

“Do you object?” A hurt wavered in Lord Slade’s voice and eyes.

“Oh, no, not at all! I just…cannot imagine why you would want to waste this gentleman’s time on a person as insignificant as I…”

Lord Slade smiled at her warmly, and took her hand again. “The preservation of beauty is never wasteful. It should be every gentleman’s duty to protect beauty where ever it is found, to ensure that future generations should be able to enjoy it.”

“I am hardly a Greek temple,” Amanda said, her euphoria wrecked by hearing a prose version of Childe Maxwell’s reaction to the beauty left in ruins across Greece applied to the notion of her portrait.

Lord Slade laughed, and led her to a bench beneath the trellis. “Forgive me for the self quotation,” he said, “but it is a universal truth, whether the beauty is the magnificence of ancient times long past, the fragile beauty of a flower, or the elegant sweetness of a young lady in the first bloom of life. Now, please do seat yourself here.”

Amanda sat, but she also frowned down at her dress. “Would you not like me to wear something nicer than this?”

“A fine portrait from an artist such as this one,” Lord Slade gestured to the man who was now moving his chair and easel into position directly in front of the trellis, “takes many sittings. For now, he will be focusing on the larger details, the general form, the structure of your face and how the light plays through the trellis onto you. Details of clothing or hair can be fixed in a later sitting.”

The mention of her hair set Amanda to instinctively checking how her hair was set. The movement earned her a bitter reproach from the painter, who told her to set her hands in her lap and leave them there. “Do you want her looking straight forward?” he then asked, looking at Lord Slade.

Lord Slade stood in front of Amanda, staring at her face, then walked first to one side of her, then the other. “Slightly aside, I believe.” He took up a position several feet to the side of the painter. “Pray turn your face towards me, Miss Smith.”

Rarely had she ever been so eager to obey any instruction! As the painter began his work, Amanda kept her gaze focused on Lord Slade. It was so utterly unlike having her portrait painted by Emma, with Mr. Elton fussing about behind Emma and distracting her from what she was doing. Lord Slade paid not the least bit of attention to the painter and his work in progress, instead standing quite still where he was, chatting to Amanda and allowing her to remain at ease when she should have been quite tense and nervous.

“Tell me, are there any other families of note living in Highbury who are currently away?” he asked after they had been speaking of inconsequential matters a little while.

“Apart from the Whitakers, no,” Amanda assured him. “What an odd question! What prompts it?”

Lord Slade laughed. “I was worried I might have another visit such as the one I had yesterday. The vicar and his new bride came to pay their respects to me as a visitor to this parish.” He frowned. “Such an abominable pair! They deserve each other most heartily!”

It was all Amanda could do to stop herself from laughing. “I am amazed they were not on better behaviour for someone of your repute and rank.”

“I am sure they thought they were,” Lord Slade said, shaking his head. “I have rarely seen any one dedicate so much effort to putting on airs with so little success! Do you know that dull-witted woman seemed obsessed with comparing Colfax to her brother’s estate? Why did she think I should care if the Whitaker’s home was anything like the paltry home of some Bristol merchant of whom no one has heard of nor ever will? And all that pathetic excuse for a husband of hers could do was drop the names of the most inelegant, unrefined and utterly unfashionable houses in Bath! All the while his idiot wife was calling him her _cara sposo_ despite speaking not a word of Italian—or any other continental tongue!” He gestured furiously with a look of exasperation that made Amanda laugh quietly despite herself.

“If you are so appalled by the Eltons, then you may wish to claim a prior engagement to avoid accepting Miss Woodhouse’s invitation,” she said.

“Ah, that.” Lord Slade sighed. “I had meant to have some words with her on the subject. I had not realised that the vicar and his vulgar bride were included on the guest list. Surely Miss Woodhouse is not as benighted as the rest of these backwoods people to enjoy the company of those two?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Amanda assured him. “But with her position in Highbury society, Emma felt she would be subject to criticism from the village if she did not hold a dinner to welcome Mrs. Elton.”

“Precisely why I could never reside in such a backwater as this,” he commented, shaking his head. “Will _you_ be in attendance, Miss Smith?”

A heat rose in her cheeks again, inspired as much by the piercing look with which he was studying her as by his words. “I was hoping to avoid spending so much time in the company of the Eltons, but if you attend, I most certainly will as well.” It was worth putting up with the Eltons if it meant getting to spend time with Lord Slade!

“Excellent. Then I shall decline, and you will be free to do so as well.” He nodded firmly. “Your desire to avoid them is most praiseworthy. For myself, if I do not see either of them again for a hundred years, it shall still be meeting again too soon.”

Amanda laughed merrily. “But you will see them at church—you could hardly _avoid_ seeing the vicar on Sunday!”

“I can most astutely and easily avoid it,” Lord Slade assured her. “I shall not be attending church in Highbury with that buffoon in the vicarage.”

For a moment, Amanda was so taken aback by the statement that there was no sound but the scrape of pencil on canvas, and a distant bird singing. “Not attend church?” she repeated, astonished. “But…you do know what people in the village will say, surely, if you are absent from worship for so many weeks?”

Lord Slade laughed. “I welcome such gossip! Such minor infamy lends weight to my works. Besides, surely you do not think I would encourage you to small wickednesses if I am unwilling to be a little wicked myself?”

The painter let out a cruel bark of a laugh, which made Amanda giggle nervously. “I had not thought about it like that,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks heat.

As if pleased by her blush, Lord Slade smiled. “And how are you progressing in your own small acts?” he asked. “I observe you have read at least part of _Childe Maxwell_.”

“Oh, yes, I have read all of it!” Amanda assured him delightedly. “Twice over, in fact! It is most painfully beautiful.” All the more so considering that the copy she was reading was not only given to her by its handsome author, but contained a personal dedication to her written in his own elegant hand inside the front cover.

“You flatter me, Miss Smith, and I accept your compliments gratefully.” Lord Slade bowed in what Amanda assumed was a friendly form of mockery. “But we must find you something else to read; from what you have said, there is precious little of interest in the library at Mrs. Goddard’s.”

“There certainly is not,” Amanda agreed. “Listening to your conversations with Mr. Curt Wild, and from what I heard of your conversation with Mr. Knightley at Hartford, I quite lamented just how little I have read.”

“I shall lend you something from my own library before you leave here,” Lord Slade said. “I brought a large trunk full of books, in case the Whitakers did not have a sufficient library for my tastes, so there is much to choose from. Was there anything we discussed you would like to read?”

While Amanda was trying to remember if there were any titles that had really stood out to her in the conversations she had heard, the painter laughed again. “ _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ ,” he said.

Lord Slade scowled and waved a hand at him. “Keep to your paints. We want no dreary and one-sided tragic loves here.” He shook his head, looking back at Amanda. “However, that is an intriguing thought. Speak you any languages, Miss Smith?”

“Only English. Mrs. Goddard did not think we needed to know any others.”

“Pity. Goethe’s novel may be tedious, but his poetry in the original German is quite magnificent. Still, do not fret, Miss Smith. There are a great many fine novels in English. This land of ours has its share of problems, but it has never known a dearth of talented writers. But you were not given the chance to answer my question. What would you like to borrow?”

“Oh, I have nothing in mind,” Amanda said, smiling uncomfortably. “I would be happy to accept any recommendation of yours, Lord Slade. I trust your judgment of literature to be beyond reproach.”

“Then I shall look through the books I brought and pick out something magnificent for you to read,” Lord Slade informed her. “Something certain to both entertain and enlighten.” He paused a moment, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps we could take this opportunity for you to tell me in greater detail what you thought of _Childe Maxwell_. It will give me an idea of what books will most please you. Maybe it will even help me to get over the difficult patch I have reached in the canto I am currently composing.”

Amanda nodded, biting her lip as she tried to think. How in the world was she to attempt to express her meagre, uneducated opinion to the poet himself? And yet with him smiling at her so kindly, she could not be afraid of his taking offense at any of her thoughts, no matter how clumsily she might express them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, btw, Mrs. Elton is the minor exception on the casting thing. The actress playing her in the 1996 movie was wonderful in the role and really epitomized the character...except that she was about 40 years old (though she could pass for 30ish), where Mrs. Elton should be somewhere in the general range of 21-24. (Her age is not specified in the book, but she is often referred to as young. And anything older than about 24 or 25 would enter "old maid" territory.) So for Mrs. Elton, imagine a younger version of the actress in the movie. :)
> 
> I should admit that we don't actually know what Mr. Suckling does for a living in the novel, and it's not really that Brian actually knows, either. He's just assuming that as the daughter of a merchant, Mrs. Elton's sister would not have been able to do any better than to marry a merchant herself.


	6. Chapter 6

By the middle of April, the weather had cleared up—for the most part—and the flowers were beginning to bloom throughout Highbury. Arthur  _ wanted _ to blame the lovely spring weather for the dreams he had been having of late, but it was hard to find any way that made sense. Though there were differences each time, the general pattern tended to be the same. It would start out at Colfax, in the dining hall or one of the parlours or in the gazebo in the gardens, and he would be sitting with Lord Slade and Curt Wild, all of them talking and laughing and having a pleasant time. Then the scene would shift as Lord Slade departed (sometimes by outright vanishing), and Arthur would be alone with Curt Wild in some isolated desert land, a wind-swept moor or a riverbank, and they would be seated so close together that Arthur could feel the heat of the other man’s body. In some of the dreams, it never went much further than that, perhaps a little conversation that bordered on the romantic, maybe holding hands, but nothing overt, nothing that necessarily indicated anything more than an intimate friendship. But in other dreams, they did much more than holding hands: they would embrace, arms around each other, and kiss, lips against lips as if there was no reason to fear discovery of their affair. This past night, they kept kissing so long that Arthur was in a most shameful state when he awoke. He hadn’t wanted to look anyone in the eye all day, in terror that somehow his eyes would give away what sort of images his brain had conjured up while he slept. Though at least he had no need to worry about accidentally doing or saying anything in the presence of either man to risk them learning that he had guessed their secret; Curt Wild was still in Yorkshire, and Lord Slade did not exactly make a habit of frequenting Mr. Perry’s apothecary shop.

And yet, as if the same fates that would guide the lives of heroes to great and virtuous endeavours also delighted in tormenting the insignificant, it was on this very day that a message was delivered to Arthur from Colfax that read “I have need of more of your medication. Please bring a bottle at your earliest convenience.”

Even as he fetched a bottle of laudanum, Arthur wondered if it was the right thing to do. If Lord Slade  _ really _ suffered from terrible headaches…but no, even then he could never have used up the entire bottle so quickly, surely. He was consuming it for pleasure. Was it in any way ethical to continue to provide it for him? As far as Arthur knew, there was no law against it—how could there be, when laudanum was in nearly all the physics Mr. Perry prescribed?—but something about the notion of supporting the consumption of opium as a habit of pleasure felt loathsome.

Of course, no amount of misgivings stopped Arthur from taking the laudanum to Colfax. No matter how awkward it was to have spent last night dreaming of sharing astonishingly open and exposed kisses with Lord Slade’s lover, Arthur could not bring himself to pass up any opportunity to see Lord Slade again. Besides, surely he  _ needed _ to see the man in person to determine if the rumours in Highbury were true. How could he write to tell Curt Wild about it if he was not even sure if it was true?

Lord Slade was pleased to see him, and accepted the bottle with a gracious smile. “I am sorry to ask for another one so soon,” he said, “but I unfortunately dropped the previous bottle, shattering it.”

“Oh, of course. It’s no trouble.” Arthur spoke hastily and nervously, and utterly without honesty. Lord Slade’s lie was blatant and childish, and it had been quite a great deal of trouble to explain to Mr. Perry where he was going and why without exposing that Lord Slade was an opium-eater!

“The morning is already quite warm; you must be thirsty after walking so far. Would you like one of the servants to bring you something to drink?”

“Um, no, thank you.” Lord Slade’s polite concern was making Arthur extremely uncomfortable. What could ever make him so concerned about the welfare of a nothing like Arthur? Was he really just that lonely without Curt Wild? “But…ah…people in the village have been, well, gossiping about you of late, and I was worried…?”

“The residents of a village as small as Highbury have nothing to do with their lives but to spread idle talk. I would not concern myself with it, if I was you.”

There was no possible way that Arthur could argue with that statement, as it was entirely true. “Even so, do you have no worries about what the rumours might do to her?”

“Her?” Lord Slade looked at him blankly. “I thought you were speaking of the local malice that I stopped attending their church in order to escape the mindless banality on display there.”

Arthur laughed. How could he not laugh? “No, those rumours are entirely benign—and probably spread out of jealousy because no one else has your courage.” Arthur certainly did not. “But they are talking about how much time you spend with Miss Amanda Smith.”

Lord Slade chuckled, and shook his head. “More harmless chatter. What could worry you about that?”

“Well…perhaps worry is not quite the right word…but you do know, um, why they are so scandalised by the notion, surely?”

“Do you mean because she is unwed, or because her parents were unwed?”

“The latter,” Arthur admitted, with an uncomfortable laugh. “I apologise. It was ridiculous of me to bring it up at all.” There was no way he could continue this line of conversation long enough to find out if there was any genuine risk to the romance between Lord Slade and Curt Wild!

“I do understand where your concerns come from,” Lord Slade said, setting a hand on his shoulder in such a familiar way that it sent shivers of excitement coursing through Arthur’s body. “But I am not in the same vulnerable position that you are. The ill-will of the mindless denizens of Highbury can have no impact on my life.” He sighed. “I suppose they  _ could _ try to forbid me from seeing her, though. I shall attempt to be more subtle. If Miss Smith’s company were lost to me, I do not know how I should survive until Curt’s return from Enscombe.” He shook his head. “You and Miss Smith are the only residents of this benighted village who are worth speaking to, and your master would never give you the free time required to keep me amused.”

“Me?” Arthur repeated, astonished. “What could I possibly—I’m nobody, nothing! There are so many more worthy people in Highbury!”

Lord Slade laughed, and looked at Arthur’s face with a deep, assessing gaze. “There are more important people, to be certain. But few of them have any semblance of intellect. Of the few who do…Mr. Knightley is entirely too rigid and humourless to be an acceptable partner in conversation, Miss Woodhouse is self-absorbed and ignorant, and as to Miss Fairfax—utterly out of the question! But you and Miss Smith, you are both still young enough that your minds have not been permanently shuttered like the rest of these backwoods automata. And you have a Classical beauty rarely seen outside ancient sculpture.”

“Beauty…? No, that’s not—I’m not—” Arthur felt an urge to scream that he was not a lady, but he could not force his lips to form the words.

“Come, let me show you.” Lord Slade led the way into a parlour which had been converted into something akin to a library or a study, with a desk covered in writing paraphernalia, and several other tables with rows of books standing on them in lieu of proper shelves. Lord Slade selected one of the books and laid it out on the desk, opening it to a page on which were printed two elaborate etchings of the heads of sculptures. “Curt has taken to calling you Ganymede—” That was news to Arthur! “—but you are far too old for a Ganymede. I would have compared you to Antinous, but looking at you side by side with these images, I would seem to have underestimated just how ideal your features really are. You’re so like the Apollo Belvedere that it is quite astonishing. See?”

He indicated one of the etchings, which was labelled as being the Apollo of Belvedere. Arthur stared at the etching intently, but he saw nothing about it that looked even remotely like him. The statue’s chin was wider than his (Arthur had always felt ashamed by just how pointed his face was), and the cheekbones not as wide, and the hair was downright curly, rather than the gentle waves of Arthur’s. “I don’t…I do not see it at all,” he admitted, shaking his head. “That looks—it is much more…I am not at all like that.” He could not say what he truly meant: the statue looked like a proper man, and Arthur was all too aware of just how feminine his face was.

“We are always the worst judge of our own faces,” Lord Slade said, shaking his head. “You would see it if you could see yourself as others see you.”

“I have seen myself in the mirror a great many times.”

“But that is a reversed image. It changes more than you think.” Lord Slade laughed. “Now I wish I had found the opportunity to have your portrait painted as well. Then you would be able to see.”

Arthur struggled to find any way to respond to that. What had happened to this conversation? What was wrong with Lord Slade? Could he be having opium-induced hallucinations that made him see some ideal beauty in the place of plain, boring Arthur?

Eventually, he gave up, and turned his attention back to the book. “What is this book?” he asked.

“Oh, this? This is Curt’s favourite book.” Lord Slade laughed, closing it again. It was bound in elaborate leather, with inlaid gilt designs. “It was privately printed for the members of a very special, particularly exclusive London club.” He smiled at Arthur. “You may look through it, if you would like.”

Curious as to what kind of book would be Curt Wild’s favourite, Arthur opened the cover carefully, exposing the title page, which read  _ A Study of the Male Form in Ancient Art; supplemented with numerous and highly detailed engravings of the most precise accuracy _ , gave no author’s name, and a printing date of 1793. Knowing the book was older than he was might have been why Arthur’s hands were trembling slightly as he turned the page, but it was probably his excitement at the idea of what he might find within.

The first page after the title page was another illustration, showing a statue of a man wearing only a cloak over his shoulders, standing with one arm resting on a pillar beside him and the other held out to his side; the text below listed it as the Apollo of Belvedere again. As his eye strayed back upwards from the text back to the image, Arthur noticed something that surprised him so that he could not prevent himself from exclaiming “What happened to his—” Fortunately he caught himself before he could go further, but it was still enough to provoke loud laughter from Lord Slade.

“The trouble with ancient art,” he said, once his laughter had petered out, “is that pieces are often lost to time. That particular piece being especially often damaged or destroyed.”

How tragic! Poor Apollo, to lose something so crucial! “If it was me, I would rather lose an arm.”

“He did lose a hand,” Lord Slade commented with a chuckle. “One of those is a reconstruction, though centuries old by now.”

Unsure how to react further, and embarrassed by his earlier outburst, Arthur turned the page, and found the beginning of the text. It was very dense, highly scholarly, and strayed into at least three other languages right on the first page. Feeling especially ignorant, Arthur quickly gave up on the text and began to turn each page with a slow, careful, deliberate action, not wanting to damage the pages, but wanting to move straight on to the next illustration.

“Yes, that is how Curt likes to read it, too,” Lord Slade commented, sighing. “Not that I blame him; the text is quite dry.”

Encouraged by possessing a similarity to Curt Wild in any way, Arthur continued turning pages until he found the next illustration. It was of a Greek vase of some variety, depicting naked men running races and wrestling each other. Arthur was astonished to see how unashamed they all were of being entirely unclad in front of other people.

Arthur continued looking through the engravings in the book until he completely lost track of time. He had never imagined any book could be allowed to exist that contained so many images of naked men! Aside from other sculptures that had lost their private parts (whether entirely or only in part), there was nothing to hide those parts from the view of any who should happen to open the book. Even more delightful was the fact that the book was almost entirely illustrations; the text had only lasted a dozen pages at most, almost as if it was merely an excuse for the images that followed.

“I hate to interrupt you while you are having such a lovely time,” Lord Slade said, when Arthur was not yet half-way through the book, “but I have business in the village. May I drop you at Mr. Perry’s on my way? You can always come back another day to see the rest of the book.”

Filled with a sudden and engorged shame, Arthur nodded with a weak smile. “Yes, of course. I apologise for taking up so much of your time.”

“If I objected, I would not have offered.” With that statement, Lord Slade seemed to consider the matter entirely closed, and led Arthur back out of the house, where his landau was waiting. Arthur was so awed at the idea of riding in a landau with Lord Slade—even if only for a little distance—that he could think of nothing to say, and sat in silence, trying to memorise everything about the voyage.

All too soon, Arthur was stepping back down out of the open carriage in front of Mr. Perry’s shop, and hoping desperately that Mr. Perry had not seen his arrival, so he would not be forced to come up with an explanation.

That thought was driven out of his head as irrelevant when he heard Lord Slade give his driver instructions to move on towards the school.

There really was not any hope of an easy solution, was there? Arthur was going to have to write to Curt Wild about the continued intimacy between Lord Slade and Miss Smith. He would have to be careful how he phrased his report, but what else could he do? No matter how much Lord Slade insisted that it was nothing scandalous, it had become impossible to view it that way. Even worse than the fact that Lord Slade was headed straight to see her even after Arthur had warned him of the gossip in the village was the fact that the man had tried to distract him with that book, which he had plainly detected would delight Arthur in a way that it would delight few others. (That part, he felt, would be best left out of his letter.)

*******

When Amanda arrived at Hartfield, she was glad to see that Emma was at present in the parlour with the piano-forte. That made it so much less awkward to ask her to play the new music. And yet when Amanda asked, Emma looked disappointed. “More sheet music?” she said, looking appalled. “And this one is for an Italian opera? Where are these coming from—no, I know who gives them to you! But  _ why _ does he send you this music when you have no knowledge of how to play, or even a piano-forte to play it upon?”

“These are pieces he especially loves, and he wants to share them with me,” Amanda explained. “And he knows that I can bring them here…”

Emma sighed, and set the music down on sofa, even as she got to her feet. “My dear, dear Miss Smith, I believe it is high time you looked to your own safety.”

“What?”

“Amanda, it is quite obvious to one and all what is passing between you and Lord Slade, and I must warn you for your own safety that you must not let yourself form an attachment to him!”

“Oh, I know a man of his position would never marry someone so lowly as I.”

Rather than being pleased by Amanda’s perception, Emma frowned. “It is not just that. You must be careful of—did you never hear any of the rumours about Lord Slade’s behaviour on the continent?”

“I suppose not,” Amanda admitted. “What could he possibly have done to merit such concerns from you?”

“As soon as the war was over—even before it was briefly renewed!—Lord Slade and another dissolute poet, Jack Fairy, were off travelling through France to Swisserland and Italy. Travelling with women who were not their wives, but who were posing as their wives!” Emma paused, scrutinising Amanda’s face. She seemed not to like what she saw there. “They say that  _ children _ resulted,” she added, in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper.

Amanda tried to laugh. “You need not worry,” she said. “I will never do any thing that could cause another child as unfortunate as myself to be born.”

“I did not mean to imply that you would,” Emma claimed, “but if he is a man who feels no reluctance in fathering such a child—and without showing the decency his friend did to marry the mother!—then why should you tarnish yourself in the eyes of society by consorting with him in any way?”

“If society really judged him so harshly for what he did, surely all of Highbury would not have been so excited by his arrival,” Amanda pointed out.

“Oh,  _ he _ is not judged harshly for his actions, but any woman who allows him to come close is judged all the more harshly for what his past actions say about his possible future actions.” Emma closed Amanda in a warm hug. “I simply cannot bear to see harm brought to you, my dear, sweet Amanda.”

“You really do not need to worry,” Amanda assured her. “I know better than to allow any affection for him to grow in my heart.” It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. She did know better. That knowledge simply had been insufficient to prevent her from falling into the most deep and unshakeable love. It would never be requited, of course, but when had that ever stopped anyone from loving?

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Emma exclaimed, stepping back and smiling into Amanda’s face. Her obvious joy lifted Amanda’s heart, but it was not enough to cause any shade to fall onto her feelings for Lord Slade. Nothing could do that, she was sure.

Emma was not, however, so relieved as to be willing to play the music for Amanda, so the next day Amanda took it to the home of the Bateses to see if perhaps Miss Fairfax would be willing to play it for her. Not only was Miss Fairfax willing, but she said she had played it before. Of course, Amanda did not get to hear it as clearly as she would have liked, because Miss Bates kept chattering away about this and that, but Amanda tried not to judge her too harshly; Miss Bates was the picture of her own future, after all.

After she finished playing, Miss Fairfax handed the sheet music back to Amanda, and sat near her in the tiny parlour, cramped as it was with the piano-forte and four people in it. “You seem to spend as much time at Colfax as at Hartfield these days,” she commented, her pale cheeks seeming to regain a bit of life. “Do they ever share any news with you of…what happens outside of Highbury? I do not get as many letters from the Campbells or Mrs. Dixon as I should like, and they are nearly all the people I know outside of this village.”

Amanda thought a moment. “They do not, for the most part, talk about their correspondences. Miss Woodhouse did mention that there was some news about Mr. Curt Wild shared at her dinner-party, but she did not mention what it was.”

Miss Fairfax laughed. “Oh, yes, I was at the party,” she said. “According to Mr. Weston, the Wilds have decided to take a house for the summer, someplace within a day’s ride of Highbury. Mr. Weston seemed to imply it would be London, but as the air is dreadful in most parts of London, I expect her health will dictate a nearby village. She does have the most terrible time breathing in town.”

“I did not realise you knew Mrs. Wild,” Amanda commented.

Her words caused a brief flush of colour on Miss Fairfax’s cheeks. “I have heard Mr. Curt Wild complain about her at great length.” She cleared her throat slightly. “He was often in to dine with Col. Campbell when we were in Weymouth.”

“Oh, I thought you barely knew him in Weymouth.”

Miss Fairfax sighed, and looked away from Amanda’s face. “I did not like to think what Miss Woodhouse would say if I admitted to any thing else.” She looked back at Amanda, her face grave. “But you will not tell her. Surely, you will not?”

The pleading look on the other woman’s face touched Amanda’s heart, and she placed a hand on Miss Fairfax’s own. “Of course not. I do tend to avoid the subject entirely, or Miss Woodhouse will go on and on at such great length!” She sighed. “So will Lord Slade, given the opportunity.” She shook her head. “You would think from Colfax, Hartfield and Randalls that Mr. Curt Wild is the only other person in England! No one among them seems to talk about or even correspond with anyone else. Do you know, I saw a bit of a letter that Lord Slade was composing to him, though it made not the least bit of sense.”

“What was it about?” Miss Fairfax asked.

“I am not sure, to be honest. It read ‘Ganymede was kind enough to provide me with more ambrosia yesterday, so you need not worry; if he was so generous with me, he surely will be so with you.’ I cannot for the life of me think what he meant. Lord Slade did loan me a book on Greek myth, so I know that Ganymede was the cupbearer on Mt. Olympus who served wine to Zeus, but there could hardly have been a mythological figure in Highbury!”

“That is odd,” Miss Fairfax agreed, looking concerned.

But before Amanda could ask what about the notion might worry her, Miss Bates (who must have been under great strain at having been silent so long!) began talking about wine and cups and her mother’s spectacles (after considerable convoluted verbal wanderings), and the subject was entirely lost in the chaos. Amanda ended up staying there so late that Miss Bates repeatedly offered to let her dine with them, but Amanda insisted that Mrs. Goddard would be most concerned if she did not return to the school to dine in company there. She knew how dire the finances of the Bateses were, and she could not bear the idea of taking even a single bite away from their mouths.

Though Amanda had idly considered asking Lord Slade about the Ganymede letter the next time she saw him, she of course put the entire idea out of her head as soon as he arrived at Mrs. Goddard’s in his landau. “Where are we going to-day?” Amanda asked, as the servant helped her up into the carriage. Lord Slade always had the top placed on the landau if they were simply going back to Colfax.

“I have heard that it is but a short drive to Box Hill,” he told her, “so I had a pic-nic luncheon prepared for us. There is nothing like a fine view and a quiet meal to complement a discussion of philosophy. I would love to share the philosophical developments of the last fifty years with you, Miss Smith.”

“They are not all  _ men _ , are they?” Amanda asked. “I am so tired of hearing what men think! There must have been women who were philosophers at some point in time, surely!”

Lord Slade laughed as the carriage pulled away from the school. “You see, this is what I enjoy so much about you. And yes, there have been some women whose contributions to philosophy reached the ears of men. I do not know their work as well, it shames me to admit, but I can share what little I know. The first one of note was Hypatia, an Alexandrine in the early years of Christianity.”

As Amanda listened eagerly to Lord Slade’s discussion of the few philosophers who shared her sex, she found herself more and more berating Mrs. Goddard for never having taught any of her students such important and fascinating subject matter. How many of the matters of the world she had been so utterly ignorant of before Lord Slade arrived! What a sad and miserable life she would have led if she had never had the delight of his company!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Jack Fairy as Percy Shelley is wrong in all kinds of ways, and yet who else could play that role to Brian's Byron? (Of course the very insertion of a Byron-analog into any Austen novel merely highlights how very different the rigid propriety of her world was from the reality that Byron inhabited. In Jane Austen novels, men who have illegitimate children are the most vile of characters, a threat to civility and generally end up being hated by the reader if not by the entire cast of the book. Lord Byron, on the other hand, was pretty much genuflected over (even if the people doing so didn't actually mean it) wherever he went, despite his infamy for various vices.) Also, as I probably should have pointed out at the start, I seem to have set this fic slightly after when the novel was set. The novel was to be taken as contemporary at the time of its publication in 1816, at which time Byron, Shelley and the Godwin step-sisters were in the early stages of their trip, so that was obviously no good if I'm inserting Brian as a replacement for Byron. Admittedly, I changed the timing of their trip to start after Napoleon's initial defeat in 1814 instead of coming safely after Waterloo, but they still likely wouldn't be back by 1816, given how long the trip lasted (I think; it's been years since I read that biography of Mary Shelley), so technically this fic is set more around 1818 or so, making the fourth canto of "Childe Maxwell" imminent (or possibly overdue).


	7. Chapter 7

By the final days of April, Highbury seemed to have forgotten that Curt Wild—or even Mrs. Elton—existed. No matter where Arthur went in the village, the only gossip he heard was about the opprobrious affair between Brian Stoningham, Lord Slade, and Miss Amanda Smith, natural daughter of someone. Most of the people—particularly the old women and the officious men of Arthur's father’s age—were now convinced that loose morals were an inherited trait, and that Miss Smith was no better than the mother who had borne her outside the sacred bonds of matrimony.

He really wished he could make some argument to defend her—to defend both of them—but what could he say? His few conversations with Miss Smith hardly made him an expert on her character; her association with Miss Woodhouse surely made for a better witness on the pristine nature of her morality, in any event. And Arthur could hardly point out that Lord Slade’s romantic affections belonged to Curt Wild! Aside from the obvious reason, he was no longer even sure it was still the truth; what if this new affection for Miss Smith had in some manner supplanted Lord Slade’s love for Curt Wild?

The time had surely passed when Arthur needed to send another report to Enscombe; the response to his last letter had come with astonishing alacrity, and had demanded updates whenever anything changed. But, really, what had changed, except perhaps the intensity of it all? Arthur was loath to send even more ill tidings to a man who was already tied against his will to the sickbed of an elderly relation.

As he knew they eventually must, one day the events in Highbury forced Arthur’s hand. He was headed back to Mr. Perry’s when he saw Lord Slade pass through the village at a gallop. Every thing about the sight was odd, except for the fact that he was headed towards Colfax. Rather than being in a carriage, he was riding directly on a horse, and the expression on his face, what little that Arthur could see of it in his passing, was maddened and terrifying. It was the expression of a man who would allow his horse to trample women and children—thank God there were none in the street!—without a second thought.

Hoping against hope that the only thing wrong was that Lord Slade had run out of opium again, perhaps having actually dropped the bottle this time, Arthur tucked a small bottle of laudanum into the pocket of his coat, and made his excuses to Mr. Perry before setting off towards Colfax as quickly as he could walk. Lord Slade’s valet seemed relieved to see him, and led Arthur into a parlour where Lord Slade paced back and forth like a caged animal, his face livid and blotched with rage.

On seeing Arthur, he pounced, grabbing his shoulder. “Do you bring a message?” Lord Slade demanded.

Arthur shook his head weakly. “I saw you ride through town…I was worried that some thing was amiss…” His voice felt thin, and he could feel it tremble as it passed through his lips. It was absurd to be so fearful of Lord Slade—the man was slightly shorter than Arthur, and quite slender—and yet he projected such an air of strength and authority, both as a baron and as a man perhaps as much as ten years’ Arthur’s senior, that Arthur could not help quailing before him.

Lord Slade released Arthur and resumed pacing. “What good are you, then?!”

Arthur hesitated a moment, his lower lip trembling. “I…I don’t know how, but…maybe I could help…if I knew what was wrong…?”

“Even I do not know what is wrong!” Lord Slade bellowed. He stopped at the mantel above the fireplace, gripping it with one hand. “Yesterday, when I went to the school to call on Miss Smith, I was told she was out.” His fingers tightened until his knuckles all shone white through his skin. “I assumed she was at Hartfield, and left without complaint.” He released the mantel, gesturing angrily as he spun around to look at Arthur. “But the Woodhouse butler asserted that she had not been there for days!” Both of Lord Slade’s hands clenched into fists. “And then to-day, that abominable woman at the school informed me that Miss Smith was not at home _to me_ !” With a cry of rage, he struck the wall with one fist. “Has she spurned me? _Why?!_ What have I ever done but shower her with kindnesses?!”

“I—I cannot imagine that Miss Smith—or _anyone_ could ever spurn you,” Arthur assured him. The look on Miss Smith’s face every time Arthur had seen her with Lord Slade—whether that day in the apothecary or as they rode past in Lord Slade’s landau—had always been of a woman entirely in love.

“Then what? Why will she not see me?” Lord Slade turned to look at Arthur, his face suddenly contorted in a very different, fragile way. “Do you think some thing is the matter with her? Could she be ill?”

“It is possible,” Arthur said, though it actually seemed quite impossible that she could be ill without his knowing about it, as Mr. Perry would likely have been sent for if she was. “Let me go to Mrs. Goddard’s and find out. If she is ill, they will surely let me see her. And no matter what, the servants will talk to me where they would not be permitted to speak to you. As I am of no consequence, no one thinks to forbid me anywhere.”

Lord Slade smiled, but there was a pain still on his face that was agony to behold. “I cannot thank you enough,” he said. “Can you ride? You will get there and back faster on one of my horses.”

“I have ridden a few times,” Arthur said, too embarrassed to admit that the first time he had ended up flat on his face in the mud. It had gone a bit better the second time, but there had never been a third.

Not until to-day, at any rate. Thankfully, the man tending the horses in the stables was able to assure him that the horse he was being loaned was of a very gentle temperament, and responded well to the bridle. That did not make Arthur any more comfortable about the animal carrying him all too quickly through the village to Mrs. Goddard’s school, but it did at least keep him from ending up thrown off again.

When he arrived, Arthur rode around the back, dismounted and tied the horse’s lead to a nearby tree before going up to the kitchen door. The cook who answered the door looked surprised, but let him in without a word. An older maid entered the kitchen from the house just as Arthur was trying to think how to ask after Miss Smith. “What are you doing here, boy?” the maid asked. “No one is ill.”

“Well…ah…I was wondering…about Miss Smith…”

The maid scowled. “You, too? You’re the third to-day.”

“Third?” Surely Miss Smith did not have a suitor other than Lord Slade?

“Miss Woodhouse sent after her this morning, and Lord Slade was here not half an hour ago.” The maid shook her head. “I shall never understand what the fuss is about that girl. What do _you_ want with her?”

“Mr. Perry likes to keep informed of his patients’ ongoing health,” Arthur extemporised, “and Miss Smith was supposed to come in to speak to him on that subject this morning, only she failed to appear. He asked me to come have a word with her and see how she is doing.”

The maid laughed rather viciously, and the cook shook her head, looking disappointed. “She’ll not be his patient after to-morrow,” the maid said, “but I suppose it would never be right to get you in trouble with your master. I will bring her here, but you must be brief.”

“Of course,” Arthur promised, his brain already awhirl even before the maid finished leaving the kitchen. What in the world could be happening to-morrow to prevent Miss Smith from ever being Mr. Perry’s patient again? Surely she was not dying? Horrifying fantasies borne from various vile pieces of ‘literature’ swung through Arthur’s imagination. There could not be some ghastly person planning to execute Miss Smith for having the gall to associate with a baron, could there?!

The maid soon enough returned with Miss Smith trailing after her. Aside from being a little pale and excessively red in the eyes and nose, Miss Smith appeared healthy and normal. She tried to smile, but it was even less convincing than Lord Slade’s attempt. The maid directed them to two chairs in one corner of the room, where they could sit and speak without being too much in the way of the servants trying to work.

“I was not expecting to see you of all people,” Miss Smith said. “Though I suppose no one closer to me would have been allowed in.”

“Mr. Perry wanted me to enquire after your health,” Arthur said, hoping his face would make it clear to her that she should not indicate how unusual that notion really was.

Miss Smith sighed sadly. “I have had my very heart and soul ripped from my body and discarded in the mud, so my health as far as I can feel it is naturally quite poorly.”

“I…am saddened to hear that…?” What in the world was he supposed to say? “What happened?”

Tears began to spill from Miss Smith’s eyes even before she started her answer. “Mrs. Goddard thinks that I have been…behaving improperly with Lord Slade. I told her I have not—I told her she could ask him if she did not believe me—that she could ask his servants or the Whitaker’s servants! But she insisted that Lord Slade would lie to cover up his indiscretions, and that his servants were paid to lie on their master’s behalf.” Withdrawing a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at the streams of salty tears that rolled down her cheeks. “She wrote to my father—who ever he is—to see what he wanted done with me.”

Given what he himself had done to create her, her father ought to have wanted her treated with lenience and understanding! But the state of Miss Smith’s face made it very clear that was not the case. “And some thing is to happen to-morrow?” Arthur asked, trying to keep his voice level for her sake.

Miss Smith nodded, the tears coming harder. “I am being sent away to London to a home for wayward girls.” A sob wracked her body. “I shall end my days in poverty, sewing for strangers, I suppose—or doing their laundry in the most miserable conditions!”

“That—that’s awful! Surely…surely there must be some way out for you?”

“I cannot see one,” Miss Smith said with a sigh. “May I ask you a favour?”

“Of course. If it is within my power, I swear that I will do it, whatever it is.”

Miss Smith produced two folded pieces of paper from the same place. “I wrote these letters of farewell, but Mrs. Goddard would not allow any of the servants to deliver them,” she explained quietly. “Do you think you could?”

Arthur accepted the letters with due reverence, and glanced at the names written on the outside. “I will place them directly in Lord Slade’s and Miss Woodhouse’s hands,” he assured her, in an equally quiet voice.

“Oh, thank you!” Miss Smith’s smile now felt a little more genuine, even if it was still marred by the sadness and tears in her eyes. “I—I am actually a little glad I am not being permitted to farewell them in person. I should not want Lord Slade to see me looking like this.”

“Don’t give up hope, Miss Smith,” Arthur said, before taking his leave as quickly as possible, worried that one of the servants might have heard their exchange and attempt to take the letters from him.

Hartfield was closer than Colfax, so once he had mounted Lord Slade’s horse again, Arthur headed in its direction. He now had three tasks of equal importance before him: deliver the letter to Miss Woodhouse, deliver the letter to Lord Slade, and compose a letter to Curt Wild explaining this drastic turn of events.

*******

Upon returning to her chamber, Amanda saw no reason to fight off her tears any longer, and she surrendered herself to them for some time, collapsing into a mess on the floor. But she could only indulge her sorrow for so long before the guilt of the entire situation ate at her too much. She had brought this on herself, after all. Even after Emma had tried to warn her, she had still persisted in gadding about with Lord Slade as if she was his equal! Of course every one assumed she had done such awful things, because what else could a man of his quality want in spending so much time with a girl like her?

There was no point in self-pity. There was no purpose to weeping. None of it would change her fate, and none of it would make any one sorry that she had lost everything. The only thing she could do would be to meet her fate stoically, and hope that at least some of those who saw her might be enough impressed by her behaviour that they would think a tiny bit more of her.

And the best way to do that was to prepare her things for her departure. That way it would be easier on Mrs. Goddard’s servants when they removed her to-morrow morning. Of course, she doubted highly that they would let her keep any of her few belongings. They would probably be given to the students, or perhaps sent to a poorhouse. Then again, wasn’t Amanda herself being sent to a poorhouse?

As she arranged her things into parcels, she set aside a small stack of books that Lord Slade had loaned to her. If she told Mrs. Goddard they were Lord Slade’s, she might well refuse to return them out of sheer spite. But that would be to use him most cruelly! Amanda sat down and wrote out two notes, one addressed to Mrs. Goddard and identifying the books as belonging to Miss Woodhouse, and the other addressed to Emma and identifying the books as belonging to Lord Slade. She set the latter note inside the front cover of the book on top of the stack, then tied the books together with a bit of twine, and placed the note directing the books to Hartfield on top. Hopefully, between Emma’s good and pure nature and Mrs. Goddard’s friendship with Mr. Woodhouse, that note would ensure the books would make their way to Hartfield, where Emma would find the other note and return them to Lord Slade.

Maybe some good would even come out of her tragic fate. Maybe it would make Emma get over her irrational dislike of Lord Slade, and as they commiserated in their brief sorrow over losing Amanda perhaps they would fall in love with each other and find a new and much better happiness. It seemed unlikely at best, but it made a pretty fantasy.

She had not long returned to packing her own few belongings into meagre parcels when a commotion began outside. Going to the window, Amanda saw Lord Slade’s carriage racing towards the school so quickly that she feared it would never be able to stop before the horses’ hooves were upon the stairs.

With a great cry that Amanda could hear clearly even through the closed windows, and a mighty tug on the reins, Lord Slade’s coachman was able to make the horses come clattering to a halt mere feet in front of the stairs to the front door. The coach had no sooner stopped than its door opened and Lord Slade himself leapt out—without even waiting for his servant to open the door for him! He charged up the stairs and out of Amanda’s sight, hidden by the portico. Breathlessly, Amanda waited at the window, expecting to see him emerge again at any second, refused entry by Mrs. Goddard or Miss Nash. She did not want to miss her final chance to see him.

And yet he did not appear. After a few minutes, in fact, Amanda heard raised voices in the halls of the school. “You cannot come in here!” Mrs. Goddard’s voice was nearly a most inappropriate shout.

“Men are forbidden except in the ground floor parlours!” It was Miss Nash who spoke this time, closer than Mrs. Goddard.

“Villains, be gone!” That—that was Lord Slade’s voice! And so very near by! Amanda ran towards the door to her chamber, but did not arrive before the door was opened by a frightened maid, who stepped out of the way, allowing Lord Slade to enter the room.

At the sight of him, so close before her, Amanda could not withhold her tears, and ran into his arms. “I thought I should never see you again!” she wailed.

“Do not fret so, Miss Smith,” he said with a calmness his voice in the hall had not suggested he could gather so soon. “I will not allow you to suffer under this tyranny any longer. There are plenty of empty chambers at Colfax; you may occupy one of them, and we shall have in as many servants as we need to show these small-minded meddlers that no impropriety has stained you.” With a gentle smile, he wiped away her tears with his bare fingers. “I will do every thing in my power to help you; you have only to tell me what you need.”

Amanda tried to calm her nerves enough to speak, but could not produce any coherent words as she clung to him, all too aware of Mrs. Goddard and Miss Nash watching with disgust from the hallway.

“Come, let us go,” Lord Slade finally said, stepping out of her embrace. “Do not fret about your things; I shall send a servant to fetch them later.”

The look on Mrs. Goddard’s face said the things would not still be there by the time the servant arrived, so Amanda hurried over to the stack of books on her bed. “Your books,” she told him, with as much voice as she could muster.

Lord Slade smiled at her warmly, then led her through the halls past so many disapproving eyes—not just the teachers and the students, but even the servants!—and out the front door, where he helped her down the stairs and took the books away from her as his servant opened the door to the carriage. Once the door was opened, Lord Slade handed off the books to his servant, and personally helped Amanda up into the carriage.

After Lord Slade had taken his own seat—the books evidently having gone up top with the servant—the carriage slowly pulled away, leaving Amanda’s old life behind her forever. What life could she expect from now on? Lord Slade wanted her with him at present, but that would not last. How could it? Even as she wept with joy not to be parted with him so soon, she also wept in fear for her future existence. A short, brutal, nasty life of poverty seemed merely delayed, rather than truly averted.

The carriage had not gone far from Mrs. Goddard’s when it came to a sudden halt. Looking out the window in front of them, Amanda saw another carriage had stopped before them. The door to the other carriage opened, and it took only a lady’s blonde head emerging from it for Amanda to realise it was the Woodhouse carriage come from Hartfield.

Unable to restrain her joy, Amanda likewise hurried from the carriage, and ran over to embrace Emma, both of them weeping as Amanda explained every thing that had happened since she wrote her letter. It was not until Emma spoke that Amanda realised Lord Slade had followed her out of the carriage. “Thank you for saving her,” Emma said.

“It was my duty and my pleasure to do so.”

“But I do hope you will reconsider your plans,” Emma went on.

“What?” Lord Slade’s voice was cold, almost menacing.

Amanda released Emma at last, looking from one to the other of her dear friends, fearful that they were about to begin quarrelling over someone as worthless as she, but unable to think quite what she could say to prevent it.

“No one who knows Amanda’s pure soul as well as you or I know it could ever believe her capable of committing any impropriety,” Emma said, holding tightly to Amanda’s hand, “but the people of Highbury—even Mrs. Goddard—do not know her so well as we do. If they see her go to stay with you at Colfax, no matter how many witnesses you provide as chaperones, they will feel certain that they were right to spurn her. But if she comes to Hartfield to stay with me and my father, and if you always have a chaperon of the highest order—myself or my father or Mrs. Weston or Mr. Knightley—when you come to call on her, then they will have to admit, sooner or later, that they were wrong.”

Lord Slade frowned, and seemed to be searching for a rebuttal.

“Please remember that despite all her virtues, Amanda is suffering under the heavy burden of her birth, and if there should appear to be any impropriety in her conduct, then she will never be able to get a husband, and surely if you care about her you would not wish her to live out her entire life alone?”

The expression on Lord Slade’s face softened, and to Amanda it suddenly appeared as if he was near tears himself. “Yes, you are quite right, Miss Woodhouse,” he said. “Please forgive my impetuous desire to be the brave knight rescuing the fair damsel in distress.” He took one step closer and bowed, taking hold of Amanda’s hand in the process. “I pray you will give me leave to call upon you to-morrow morning at Hartfield,” he said, kissing Amanda’s hand.

“Oh, I…of course—of course…with Miss Woodhouse’s permission?” Amanda replied, flustered into confusion.

“Naturally we will be overjoyed to admit you,” Emma assured him.

“Until to-morrow then, dear ladies,” Lord Slade said, taking hold of Emma’s hand briefly before returning to his carriage.

Emma’s coachman helped the two young ladies back into the carriage. “James, after you have taken us home, I want you to come back here to fetch Miss Smith’s belongings.”

“Of course, Miss Woodhouse.”

As the carriage began the slow process of turning about, Emma patted Amanda’s hand gently. “Once we get home, you need some rest to recover from all this harrowing experience,” she said. “I will have the cook prepare you something nice to dine on—none of my father’s awful gruel!—and you can have a nice rest in your bed-room.” She laughed with a forced lightness that grated on Amanda’s ears. “You have used it so often already as to make it already your own, after all, so what could be more natural than for it to become yours entirely?”

“I can never thank you enough for all you are doing for me,” Amanda said, holding onto Emma’s hand tightly as she fought to keep from crying yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter we have unfortunately slipped out of Jane Austen and more into the territory of the Bronte sisters. That...was never my intent, but I just couldn't find a good way around it, unless I wanted Brian to be even more out of character than he already is or to make Highbury weirdly and anachronistically permissive.
> 
> (Also, btw, in case anyone thinks it was a mistake to refer to a lady having a pocket in the early 19th century, at that time the word pocket was applied to a small purse or pouch a lady keeps on her person. In fact, Emma Woodhouse mentions her own pocket at one point in the novel.)


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur had not gotten far in his letter to Curt Wild when Mr. Perry came to fetch him and insist that they were needed at Hartfield instantly. On the walk there—in between lamenting his lack of funds for a coach—Mr. Perry informed Arthur of the bewildering turn of events at Mrs. Goddard’s this afternoon. If all that Mr. Perry said was true (and why would he lie?), then both Lord Slade and Miss Woodhouse acted on the information in the letters Arthur had handed them, and thus Miss Smith had ended up installed at Hartfield, to protect her reputation from the permanent stain that staying at Colfax would have given it. Of course, to listen to Mr. Perry, they had gone through that precaution needlessly, because if he was representative of the people of Highbury, the stain had already become permanent, and Miss Smith was sure to suffer exile from the community as soon as Miss Woodhouse ceased to protect her. Mr. Perry, of course, was utterly unconcerned about Miss Smith’s health (despite that it was surely rather fragile after suffering such a traumatic event), and only wished to make this journey to Hartfield in fear that the commotion might have upset Mr. Woodhouse’s delicate constitution.

As Mr. Woodhouse appeared no different than usual, Arthur excused himself and asked Miss Woodhouse if he might check on Miss Smith to see if her health had suffered from her ordeal. Miss Woodhouse thanked him for his solicitousness, and led him up the stairs to a doorway, where she quietly knocked. When there was no response from within, Miss Woodhouse opened the door a crack and looked inside. “She seems to be sleeping,” she explained, as she shut the door again. “She was most awfully drained by her experience this afternoon,” Miss Woodhouse added, as she began leading Arthur back down the stairs.

“As anyone would be,” he agreed. “Do send for me or Mr. Perry if she should need any medical attention. Exhaustion can cause dire complications.”

While Miss Woodhouse was assuring him that she would do so, their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Mrs. Weston. Miss Woodhouse excused herself to go speak to her former tutor, leaving Arthur to make his way back to his master’s side alone. As he was going, he could not help overhearing the ladies talking. “I thought you might like a little good news,” Mrs. Weston said in explaining her presence. “I have had another letter come from Curt Wild.”

Arthur’s pace in walking away definitely slowed at the sound of that most special name.

“And it has good news?” Miss Woodhouse repeated. “Is he returning to Highbury soon?”

“He says he has convinced his uncle and aunt that the air in London will be too bad for Mrs. Wild’s health, and that they have agreed to take a house outside of town. And as she has had the medical skill of an eminent person in Richmond recommended to her, it will be there that they will be securing a house, beginning in mid-May! We should see him again in just a few weeks’ time. His father is so very pleased by this news.”

“Indeed, as we all are,” Miss Woodhouse agreed, just before Arthur got too far away to hear any further of their conversation.

Arthur encountered Mr. Perry in the corridor before he had gone much further, and they were both soon leaving Hartfield to begin the walk back to the shop. “Just what were you so pleased about, eh, boy?” Mr. Perry asked, as they walked away from the manor.

“Pleased, sir?”

“You were positively grinning back there.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I wasn’t aware of doing any such thing, Mr. Perry.”

“Aware of it or not, you were. So what made you so cheerful?” Mr. Perry looked at him through narrowed eyes, scowling. “Suppose it was pleasure at getting to see Miss Woodhouse up so close, wasn’t it? Typical boy.” He sighed. “Well, do not let all that nonsense between Miss Smith and Lord Slade give you any airs in thinking you can court above your station! Miss Woodhouse will never put up with such nonsense from the likes of you.”

“Mr. Perry, I can assure you that was not—”

“I expect Miss Woodhouse will become Mrs. Curt Wild in a matter of months, anyway.”

Arthur sighed. What a dreadful thought! “Suppose she might,” he agreed. How far would someone like Curt Wild go to hide his secret, Arthur wondered. How far should _Arthur_ go to hide his own secret? He could not at all tolerate the idea of convincing (tricking?) some unfortunate girl to become his bride in the hopes of fooling the world into thinking that he preferred the company of ladies to that of men. Arthur would rather be shunned and isolated than be forced to that extreme, and yet there were fates so much worse than mere banishment from society that his honesty might provoke…

He continued contemplating the idea and its various ramifications for the duration of the return trip, only putting it out of his mind when he was safely back in his own little chamber and ready to resume writing his letter, though it might not be so necessary now, if Mrs. Weston was also about to write to her step-son. But he could not neglect to write, no matter how superfluous his contribution was, because after all he had promised, and he could think of nothing worse than breaking a promise to Curt Wild. Prior to his departure for Hartfield, Arthur had only begun to write down the tale of Miss Smith’s situation, and now he was able to give an even more complete picture, including the events provoked by the missives he had himself delivered. (It was only with some self-loathing that he admitted to his own role in the tale.)

Following the conclusion of the narrative, Arthur added his own opinion of the situation: “Considering all that he said and did to-day, I cannot help but fear that Lord Slade has become quite absolutely infatuated with Miss Smith, though I cannot understand how that could be.” He wished he could add the necessary qualifier “when he already has you,” but he was terrified that some one would see the letter and realise a truth that had been until now hidden away by those two gentlemen who were so much more worthy than Arthur himself.

As soon as the letter was completed, Arthur hurried it to the post-office, where he made it known to be a very urgent letter that must be delivered as quickly as possible. Though of course nothing headed to Yorkshire from Surrey could be expected to truly arrive quickly, Arthur was at least hopeful that it would not take more than a few days to get there. Certainly, he did not doubt that Curt Wild would see it before his own departure from Enscombe for Richmond.

*******

Everything was taking much too long! Nine miles was not that far, but Curt would still have preferred not to have to ride it in the dark both ways! Yet this monstrous fool handling the paperwork for the lease was moving so slowly that his pen seemed to be moving backwards, sucking the ink back inside it as it went!

The sun was already setting by the time his business in Richmond was concluded. Curt left the paperwork at the inn before taking his horse and heading for Highbury, tightening his cloak and hood against the bitter wind as he rode. It would be long dark by the time he got there, but perhaps that was actually for the best. If any of the villagers were to see him passing through, it would be fuel for gossip for days if he did not pay a visit at least to his father, if not to Miss Woodhouse as well. And he did not have that kind of time if he was to begin the return journey to Enscombe at first light!

As he had on the entire carriage ride south, Curt spent the whole ride from Richmond to Highbury pondering and fuming. The only difference was that now he could not be reading and rereading again the letter that informed him of the beastly new circumstances in Highbury. How could the boy have allowed this to happen? Not just allowed—he had _helped_ it to happen!

Why would Brian have done something so irrational?

How could Brian possibly want that nothing of a girl when he already had Curt? What had been the point of his even taking the house at Colfax if it was not to spend more time with Curt away from the Medusa-glare of Curt’s aunt?

It was not so late when Curt arrived at Colfax that any of the lights had yet been extinguished. He marched up to the door without hesitation and pounded on it until it was answered by Brian’s valet, who looked quite surprised to see him.

“Ah, we were not expecting you for some weeks, Mr.—”

“I want to see Brian. _Now_.” Curt cut off the ashen-faced valet without remorse. He had no interest in what Brian’s coterie of accomplices and sycophants might have to say about his sudden and unannounced arrival.

“Yes, of course. Right this way.” The valet led Curt through to Brian’s study, where Brian was seated on a chaise, idly reading a book. He looked up at their arrival, and his smile on seeing Curt looked as genuine as it always had, and yet the entire scene rang bitterly hollow with a morbid and off-key note that chilled Curt to his bones.

“When did you return?” Brian asked, setting aside his book and getting to his feet. “You did not write to let me know you were going to be back so soon!” He crossed over to Curt and tried to embrace him, but Curt refused the gesture.

“Enough nonsense,” Curt snarled. “I want to know the meaning of _this_.” He produced Arthur’s letter, shoving it in Brian’s face.

Brian looked over the letter with an expression that grew cold, even angry. “You had that boy spying on me?”

“I asked him to keep me appraised if any thing untoward happened. And it is hard to imagine any thing more untowards than the events described in this letter.”

Brian sighed deeply, with a look on his face that said he felt Curt’s behaviour was grossly unfair. “Surely you would not have preferred to see an innocent girl sent away to live the rest of her life in disgrace.”

“I would prefer it,” Curt snapped, “if you had not been flitting about with her to set these small-town fools to suspecting her of indecency in the first place!”

“There is no one else to consort with in this miserable place,” Brian insisted. “Hide-bound, small-minded ignoramuses whose attitudes still refuse to join the nineteenth century.”

Curt stared at him for a moment, trying to use his face to gauge just how much he meant what he was saying. It certainly _appeared_ that Brian was speaking truthfully. “Miss Woodhouse really is not that bad,” Curt sighed, unable to find any other way to reply.

“Yes, now that I am forced to include her in nearly every encounter with Miss Smith, I am realising that I did judge Miss Woodhouse too harshly; she is not nearly as pig-headed and foolish as most of the rest of Highbury. She is, however, frightfully self-absorbed and not merely unread but determined to remain that way.”

There was no way to argue with that; Mrs. Weston had several times made the same lament about her inability to convince Miss Woodhouse to while her idle hours away with a book. The comment left something gnawing uncomfortably at Curt’s mind even as Brian’s valet returned with a tray containing brandy and two glasses. As the valet left again and Brian began pouring out drinks for them both, Curt continued to be eaten away from the inside until he finally realised what was bothering him, even as he accepted the brandy Brian was handing him.

“Just how often have you been to Hartfield since Miss Smith relocated there?” he asked, unable to keep the weight of his suspicion out of his voice.

“Why, every day, of course,” Brian answered, as if there was nothing wrong with that, or perhaps even as if there was something wrong with Curt for not realising that immediately.

“Arthur was right, then,” Curt concluded. “You really are infatuated with her.”

Brian sighed. “What rot.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of his brandy. “I am not the sort to enter into anything so mindless as an infatuation.”

“But you _are_ in love with her.”

“I do not think so.” Brian chuckled. “Would it matter if I was?”

“Of course it would matter! How could it not matter if you were to throw me over for that nothing of a girl?!”

“Throw you over?” Brian laughed, and set down his brandy, moving over to set a gentle hand on Curt’s cheek. “Is that what has upset you so?” He leaned in and placed a single, light kiss on Curt’s lips. “You know I would never wish to end things with you, my love.”

“And the girl?”

“I have love enough for two.”

Curt could not move away from him fast enough, and resorted to pushing Brian away even as he stepped backwards. “You would expect me to have only a share in your time and affection?!”

“Really, Curt, you are being quite unreasonable. It is in no way different from what you propose with Miss Fairfax.”

“It is entirely different.”

“What could possibly differ between the two situations?” Brian asked, with an arched eyebrow.

“My marriage to Miss Fairfax will be in name only; there is no pretence of genuine affection on either side.”

Brian smiled in the most bitterly patronising way. “My poor, sweet naïf. You only trust her word in that because you have not spent enough time around women to know how twisted they can become in their pursuit of the husband they desire. Once you are married, then you shall see how fervently she desires your bed.”

“I cannot believe you would think that of her. After all she went through—”

Brian’s raucous laughter cut Curt off short. “A most transparent performance that any man with experience would see through in a heartbeat. But that trusting nature is one of the things I most love about you, dear Curt. Now do set this nonsense aside, and—”

“How can you be so heartless?” Curt demanded, swatting aside the hand Brian was reaching out towards his face. “You think she allowed herself to be thus attacked on the slim chance that it would make me willing to marry her?”

“Of course not. If she had been attacked, she would have been quite glad to inform you of her attacker’s identity. Her refusal to speak proves the falsehood of her entire tale.”

Curt raised his hand without even thinking about it, and only barely came back to his senses in time to stop himself from striking Brian. “You really are the enemy of women,” Curt snarled.

“As their competition, I would think that title would be more appropriately attached to _you_.”

This time, Curt did not hold back. He struck Brian with the flat of his palm, hard enough to send him reeling backwards several paces.

Brian smirked as he felt at his cheek with his fingers, which came away bloody from the corner of his lips. “My, did I come too close to the mark?”

What happened next was nothing but a haze in Curt’s mind by the time Brian’s servants rushed into the room and separated them, bodily dragging Curt away from Brian, allowing the latter to get back to his feet and straighten his clothes, ignoring the blood trickling from his nose and lips.

“My lord…?” The valet’s voice trembled slightly, possibly because Curt was still struggling to free himself from the servants who had the gall to be laying their hands on him.

“It would seem that Mr. Curt Wild has become a bit over stimulated,” Brian said, patting the dust from his clothing. “Remove him from the premises before he can damage the Whitakers’ property.”

Curt only struggled against them as far as the hall. Once there was a closed door between him and Brian, his ire abated just enough to give him the presence of mind to demand that the servants unhand him at once. Upon their compliance, he stalked out of the house as quickly as he could.

The cool night air did nothing to calm him, however, and as soon as Curt had mounted his horse, he found himself wondering if he could safely buy several very strong drinks at the Crown Inn without leaving behind filthy gossip.

  
  


*******

Arthur had no idea precisely what time it was when he heard the banging at the shop door, but it was late enough that he was the only one awake in the house, and he was afraid of the consequences if his master or his master’s family had their sleep disturbed unnecessarily. So he hurried down the stairs even as unclad as he was, praying that it was not a lady he was about to meet on the doorstep in his night-shirt!

To Arthur’s astonishment, the figure on the other side of the door turned out to be Curt Wild himself. He entered the shop without pause or permission as soon as the door was open. There was something unsettled, even manic, about his behaviour that had Arthur terribly alarmed.

“Where do you keep the laudanum?”

“On the shelves there, but why do you—” Arthur’s question stopped before it had really started when he saw Curt Wild reaching up to take down a bottle (an oversized supply bottle at that!) of laudanum. “Here, that’s not for the public!” Arthur hastened to take the bottle away before anything untoward could happen.

“You’ll give _him_ more, but not me?” Curt Wild snarled. His breath was heavy with the smell of alcohol.

“I will prepare you another bottle if you need it, but this is Mr. Perry’s—this is the one we pour out portions from, and as that goes it is for use by apothecaries only!”

“Then pour me out a bottle.”

“Of course.” Arthur hastily took down a standard bottle and filled it with laudanum, keeping it with him as he returned the large bottle to the shelf. “What are your symptoms?” he asked, once that was done.

“Symptoms?” Curt Wild repeated.

“Yes, from what are you suffering? I should not want to be guilty of giving the wrong physic for the illness.” Not that Arthur had any expectation that there _was_ an illness.

“I am suffering because _someone_ helped that woman steal her way into Brian’s heart instead of protecting him like he said he would!”

Arthur winced. “I did say there was nothing I would be able to do to interfere,” he squeaked, trying to defend himself at least a little bit. “And I would not have delivered her letter if I had foreseen his reaction to it.” Just the letter to Miss Woodhouse would have been sufficient to save Miss Smith from the undeserved punishment Mrs. Goddard had planned for her.

“Fine. Give me the laudanum as an apology for your failure to think ahead.”

Without thinking, Arthur started to hand the bottle over. Before Curt Wild could take the bottle, though, Arthur’s sense of guilt struck him full in the face, and he pulled the bottle back again. “Not if you have no need of it,” Arthur insisted.

“I said give it to me!” Curt Wild exclaimed, grabbing for the bottle.

But Arthur raised it high above his head, so all that Curt Wild’s fingers closed around was Arthur’s arm. “I will do no such thing if you are not ill.”

“Drop the bottle.”

“I will not, and do not think you can take it from me by force just because you view me as only a boy,” Arthur said, summoning every ounce of his courage. “I may not be a man in your eyes, but I am taller than you are, and I see no reason to think that you might be any stronger than I am, so you will not be getting this bottle away from me through any violence. Just forget the laudanum and sober up.”

Curt Wild chuckled coldly. “Oh, I can make you drop it. And it won’t take force.”

“How else would you make me drop it?” Arthur asked, confused.

While he was expecting an answer, Arthur was taken by surprise when he was pulled forward, and suddenly felt lips press up against his own. His eyes widened in surprise as he felt Curt Wild’s tongue slipping between his lips and into his mouth. The sensation was so pleasant and stimulating that Arthur nearly _did_ drop the bottle. But he just managed to hold onto it, even as his free arm rose up and wrapped around Curt Wild’s waist as he stepped in even closer to enjoy the sensation more fully.

But the kiss was all too short-lived. When he pulled his lips and tongue away, Curt Wild glanced down at the arm around his waist, then back up at Arthur’s face. “That is certainly not the response I was expecting,” he chuckled.

“I…I may have…been dreaming about this…” Arthur admitted, feeling his whole face—if not his whole body—fill with a heat that probably left him as red as a tomato.

A brilliant, mischievous grin preceded another kiss, deeper and longer than the previous one. Curt finally released Arthur’s arm so that he could wrap both of his own around Arthur’s body. By feel alone, Arthur carefully set the bottle down on the table beside them so he could put his other arm around Curt as well, sliding his fingers into the masses of beautiful blond hair. Kiss followed kiss, with the other man’s tongue exploring in Arthur’s mouth, or his teeth gently nipping at Arthur’s lips. Arthur did his best to match every action, but he was barely able to keep up, and mostly could contribute only by holding on tightly, and accepting every thing with an eager readiness.

“Ah, this is better than any opium,” Curt Wild breathed when he eventually released Arthur’s lips. “Let us take it a step further,” he added, with another beautiful, wicked smile.

“Further?” Arthur repeated, hearing an embarrassing crack in his voice as one of Curt Wild’s hands slipped down his back and below his waist.

“Which way is your bed chamber?” The words were barely more than a throaty, desperate whisper in Arthur’s ear.

Arthur swallowed heavily. “It’s—I—we—we can’t. If my master heard…”

Curt Wild let go of him entirely, with a bitter moan. “Yes, that is true,” he admitted. “Being discovered is…” He bit his lip. “But maybe we have enough privacy down here…”

“I don’t think I would dare.” Arthur coughed slightly. “Though…actually…I…I am not sure what else we—I do not know how it works with—I mean…” His voice fizzled out like the last ember of an ancient flame. Mr. Perry had given him a very thorough, very scientific explanation of just when men and women did together to create children, but Arthur was unsure just how to adapt that notion to work with two men.

Surprisingly, Curt Wild laughed. “You really don’t know?”

Arthur could only shake his head, too ashamed to speak.

“So I suppose you had never kissed anyone before this, then?”

Again, Arthur could only shake his head.

A light chuckle. “No wonder you seemed so bewildered. I am eager to see how good you get with some practice.” Then Curt Wild leaned in and whispered the most astonishing things in Arthur’s ear, explaining just how two men went about sharing the most intimate of experiences together. It sounded wonderful, and yet…

“Doesn’t that hurt?” It sounded like it might.

“It feels fantastic,” Curt Wild assured him. “There are also other methods, of course.” More beautiful, intimate secrets whispered in his ear. “You think about all that,” Curt Wild said, stroking the underside of Arthur’s chin with one bent finger. “And when I come back in about a week we can…continue this discussion.”

Arthur nodded eagerly. “It will be agony having to wait,” he said, almost breathlessly. “I shall have trouble thinking of anything else in the interim.”

“Good boy,” Curt Wild said, giving him one more brief kiss on the lips before departing, leaving Arthur alone in the shop with his suddenly enhanced and astonishingly grown desires.

*******

Though she had now been staying—living—there a week, Amanda was still having trouble adjusting, and waking up in the large, soft bed at Hartfield continually gave her a jolt of shock, as it somehow felt different than it had when she was merely a guest for a single evening. Once Amanda’s few things were properly situated in her new chamber, Emma had made a point of going through her dresses and removing about half of them to be given away to women who could not afford good clothing. A tailor had duly been sent for, and over the last week Amanda had seen a slow trickle of brand new gowns both for everyday use and for more formal occasions making their way to Hartfield, all cut precisely to her figure. She continually protested that Emma should not be spending so much of her father’s money on a mere house guest who could never hope to repay such charity, but Emma would not hear her concerns, insisting that Amanda must think of herself as a daughter of the Woodhouse family in all but name from this day forward.

Amanda had been too flattered by the notion to make a proper attempt to refuse it, though she did make a few feeble protests. Surprisingly, even Mr. Woodhouse seemed to accept the idea of Amanda as a permanent addition at Hartfield with complete satisfaction. In fact, he spoke of the idea as a healthy one for Emma, saying that he hoped Miss Smith would be able to fill the hole “poor Miss Taylor” had left in their lives when she travelled the half-mile to take a wealthy and doating husband at Randalls. (Amanda, in truth, still had trouble not giggling to hear Mrs. Weston described as being in any way unfortunate!)

Even more difficult to adjust to was the alteration to Lord Slade’s visits. While Amanda had certainly grown accustomed to seeing him nearly every day, there was now a punctuality and a formality—if not outright rigidity—to the visits that they did not have before her permanent departure from Mrs. Goddard’s. Having Emma or her father present as a chaperon changed things dramatically, of course, but there was more to it than that. Something seemed to have changed about Lord Slade himself, though Amanda could not identify precisely what it was. She did speculate that some of it might be Lord Slade’s discomfort at knowing that the two little Knightley boys were at present staying at Hartfield to visit their grandfather and aunt, and did have the most beastly tendency to want to be in whichever parlour their aunt was presently using.

Still, his irregular visits of the past had sometimes been difficult; his calling so early that Amanda had barely finished breakfasting on one day, and then not calling until the last hours of the afternoon the next had made it hard for Amanda to do anything else with her time, even forcing her visits with Emma to lapse. Having Lord Slade begin to call punctually upon her at Hartfield every day at the same hour of the late morning was at least more easily dealt with, even if it would make it that much harder on her if some day he should fail to show himself. (It had not happened yet, but Amanda had no doubts that it would happen with considerable regularity once Mr. Curt Wild returned to Highbury.)

That new regularity made it all the more astonishing when he suddenly presented himself on this particular morning. Amanda and Emma had only just settled themselves in the parlour following their breakfast. Their conversation as to how they should spend the day (apart from entertaining Emma’s nephews, which in truth took up a great deal of both of their time) had only just begun when Lord Slade was suddenly upon them, acting as if it was in no way unusual for him to arrive so early.

Following the usual greetings and every one seating themselves, Lord Slade became strange and distant, and did not seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention to any thing Emma or even Amanda might say to him. Finally, after they sat in an uncomfortable silence for some minutes, Amanda sighed deeply. “What is troubling you?” she asked. “You are hardly your usual self this morning.”

Lord Slade looked at her with astonishment, as if he expected that his conduct was utterly normal. “Perhaps I am not,” he conceded, after maintaining his silence for a few seconds longer. Then he turned to look at Emma. “I would know just what Curt said to _you_ last night,” he said.

Emma’s mouth opened in astonishment for several seconds before she produced any words. “Lord Slade, I am bewildered by your question. I have not heard from Mr. Curt Wild since he left Highbury nearly two months ago.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Why should you think otherwise?” Emma asked, her voice calm and composed, but an ire showing in her eyes that had Amanda worried.

“I know how very close he is to you.”

“He seems far closer to you than to any one else currently in Highbury.”

A disdainful harrumph was the only response from Lord Slade, and Emma’s fury at being treated with such disrespect was beginning to show on her face. If Amanda did nothing, they would surely soon be exchanging heated words that they would both regret later! “Really, Lord Slade, you know Miss Woodhouse would tell you if she had heard any thing,” Amanda said. “She is, after all, the very pinnacle of Highbury society.”

“That is hardly a notable accomplishment!” Lord Slade snapped with such ferocity that Amanda quailed back. The sight of her recoiling seemed to bring him back to his senses, rising to his feet with a mournful expression. “Forgive me. I seem to be out of sorts this morning. I will call again when my nerves have calmed.”

With that, he turned and left again without another word, or even a proper farewell to either of them.

Both of them simply sat there, quite agog at what they had just witnessed, until Amanda finally spoke. “Do you think Mr. Curt Wild really was in town last night?” she asked. “And that they quarrelled?”

“He could not have been. I would have heard it from Mrs. Weston if he had been at Randalls, and how could he have been in Highbury without calling upon his own father?” Emma shook her head. “Lord Slade simply must have received a letter that was so frank that it _felt_ to him as if Mr. Curt Wild was there in the room with him.”

“I wonder what it could have been about to leave Lord Slade in such a state?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“No, not at all,” Amanda sighed, shaking her head.

“They had to have quarrelled over you.”

“Me?” It seemed impossible!

“Mrs. Weston’s account of what happened at Mrs. Goddard’s last week must have left Curt Wild under the same mistaken belief as Mrs. Goddard herself.” Emma frowned. “The fact that his close friend believed Lord Slade was capable of soiling your innocence is certainly distressing.”

“I think it more likely that he felt I was the type to attempt to drag down any man near me,” Amanda sighed. “He has seemed to detest me quite from the start.”

Emma sighed sadly. “Yes, that is true,” she agreed. “I have tried on several occasions to make him see your merits, but he never would listen. Perhaps he always feared there would be an attachment between you and Lord Slade. But there is no need to worry about that. Once he has returned to town, I will make sure he understands that there is nothing but friendship between you two.” Emma squeezed Amanda’s hand comfortingly. “I will not give up my new sister so lightly, after all! We can live here at Hartfield quite comfortably, no matter how long we do refuse to marry.”

Amanda tried to recall the thrill of secret excitement that had run through her last year when Emma had first claimed she would never marry, but it was lost to her now. She no longer wanted to be the love Emma Woodhouse was keeping secret from the world. She wanted, no matter how forbidden it was, to be the love that Brian Stoningham was announcing to all the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly did not mean for Brian/Mandy to end up dominating so much of this fic. But with Curt having to be in Yorkshire for so long and with Brian's Byronic persona...I would have had to scrap the whole thing and find a different way to add Brian to the picture to keep this from happening. And I really didn't want to do that, because he fits the Lord Byron role so perfectly!


	9. Chapter 9

Mr. Perry had only just begun his examination of the ailing child when Arthur heard the door to the shop open. At first, Mr. Perry did not seem to care, then a look of extreme consternation crossed his face. “Go see who it is, boy,” he said, scowling at Arthur. “Send them away unless it is urgent; this may take me some time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur hurried out of the examination room, expecting that he would just have to dispense a physic or accept a payment for past services and then be back before Mr. Perry could finish his preliminary examination. All thoughts of his duties vanished from his mind at the sight he beheld in the main part of the shop. The man who had come in had his back to Arthur, but the shoulder-length blond hair marked him out distinctly, and set Arthur’s heart pounding in his breast.

Curt Wild turned away from the bottle of laudanum he had been looking at (the same one he had gotten down a week ago) and smiled widely on seeing Arthur. “There you are,” he said, with a warm laugh. “Do you always leave the shop untended like this?”

Arthur coughed uncomfortably. “Mr. Perry is with a patient, and Mrs. Perry has taken the children on an outing. And I was helping Mr. Perry—helping and being instructed by, rather.” He smiled weakly, moving closer. “Normally I would not accompany my master into a patient examination unless Mrs. Perry was available to watch the shop, but he thought it would be a good learning experience for me.” And he had probably wanted Arthur on hand to clean it up if the child should cough up anything unpleasant onto the floor.

“Hmm.” Curt Wild reached up and brushed a few strands of hair away from Arthur’s forehead. “I suppose that means now is not the time to resume our earlier conversation?”

Arthur’s entire body flushed hot. “I…it…” He knew he  _ ought _ to say that he needed to see to his duty, but he was not at all sure he could force his lips to cooperate. There was something much more rewarding they wanted to be doing…

Before Arthur could find any way to respond properly, the door from the examination room opened again. “What is taking so long, boy?” Mr. Perry’s voice asked sternly.

“My apologies for keeping him,” Curt Wild said, with a wide grin. “I was hoping I might be able to borrow your young apprentice here to help out with the ball at the Crown Inn. I fear the full explanation of the details is quite time-consuming.”

Mr. Perry coughed. “Ah, well…go ahead, then. The child is not as sick as I thought; I shall not be needing your help, Arthur.”

“Yes, Mr. Perry.”

As soon as the door shut again behind Mr. Perry, Arthur felt hot breath on his ear. “Where can we talk in private?”

“This way,” Arthur urged, leading him through the private door to the stairs up to the Perry living area. As they were climbing the stairs, Arthur looked over his shoulder at Curt Wild. “What is this about needing me for a ball?”

“Best excuse I could think of,” he replied, with a chuckle. “It might be nice to have you there, though. It is always nice to have someone pretty to look at about.”

The comment left Arthur so embarrassed and flattered that he could think of nothing further to say, and led the way in silence, all the way to the door that led to his tiny chamber. “In here,” he said—barely more than an excited whisper—as he opened the door, stepping aside to let the other man in.

Arthur was still shutting and locking the door when he heard an uncomfortable laugh from behind him. “You live in a room this small?”

While there was some part of Arthur’s mind that wanted to defend the decency of his quarters, the better part did not want to waste their precious time on something so irrelevant. He hurried across the room and took Curt in his arms, kissing him with such passionate urgency that he was soon feeling guilty about it and stepping away again. “I’m sorry, I—” Arthur started.

“No need to apologise,” Curt said, smiling. “I am glad to see you have been thinking about that last conversation we had.”

“Constantly.”

Curt’s smile widened, then he renewed their embrace. They had not been kissing nearly long enough by Arthur’s estimation when Curt pulled back again. “Are you ready to go further this time?” he asked.

Arthur’s breath caught in his lungs as he weighed the possible delights of everything Curt had described to him with the horrors of what would happen should Mr. Perry find out. For every fantasy of indescribable pleasure, a thousand fears of disgrace and death floated like spectres in front of his mind’s eye.

“Is that a no?” Curt asked, looking deeply into Arthur’s eyes.

“No, I—I just…have a fear of being caught…” Realistically, with Mrs. Perry and the children out of the house, this was probably the ideal time. Assuming no more patients came in while they were otherwise occupied.

“I excel at avoiding getting caught,” Curt assured him, with a suave smile. “For the least noise and mess, there is really only one choice. I can go first and show you how it is done…as long as you are sure you shall be able to swallow it.”

A giddy smile broke out across Arthur’s reddening face, and he nodded, unable to speak with excitement. Could this really be happening?

Curt kissed him a few more times, then knelt down in front of him, and quickly unbuttoned the front of Arthur’s trousers. Arthur was not sure if he should watch or look away as Curt let the flap fall open and set about his delightful—oh  _ so _ delightful!—task.

In the end, Arthur could not tear his eyes away as Curt applied the talents of his hands, tongue and lips to elevate Arthur to levels of pleasure he would never have thought possible. By the end, it was so overpowering that Arthur feared his knees would fail to maintain him. He did not quite collapse, however, and once Curt was quite through, he rose to his own feet, and intimated that Arthur must now return the favour.

Hopefully it was only Arthur’s excitement that made him incapable of unbuttoning Curt’s trousers without assistance. Once the humiliation of needing help with buttons was past, Arthur set about attempting to copy exactly what Curt had done for him. He was a little hesitant and unsure at times—the pleasure had been too great to allow him to properly note all the details—but Curt gave him instructions as he went. All told, by the time he had finished, Arthur found he enjoyed this more servile role almost as much as the other, even if it had nearly choked him once or twice.

Curt helped Arthur back to his feet, and they kissed a few times before seating themselves on the side of Arthur’s hard, paltry bed. They sat in silence for a moment before Arthur broached a subject that somehow felt more crucial than anything else. “Um…may I…may I address you simply as ‘Curt’ now?”

Curt laughed, and put an arm around Arthur, pulling him tight against his side. “My God, after that? I would view it as an insult if you tried to be formal with me!” Arthur had not quite finished with his sigh of relief before Curt went on. “Though that is only in private, of course. In public it would be too suspicious. I need to appear as…” He let out a long, slow, deep breath. “My life has become unbearably complex, really.”

“Am I making it worse?”

“Perish the thought!” Curt squeezed his side again. “But we will need to find ways to meet that do not arouse suspicions. The ball will be useful for that, though really Mrs. Weston is making all the arrangements. The ball will only suffice for this first week, however.”

Arthur nodded, then bit his lip shyly. “Did you come all the way into town just to see me?” he asked. It seemed unbelievable, but he could not resist hoping.

An uncomfortable laugh. “Ah, sadly, no. I was trying to call on Miss Fairfax, but I was told she was out. I thought I would while away the time here until she returned by seeing you.”

“Are you…I…” Arthur stopped, frowning. How could he order his thoughts to ask his question without giving offense? “Are you close to Miss Fairfax?”

“Yes, very.” A long silence. “Do you know her at all?”

“I have assisted Mr. Perry in seeing to her health a few times since her return to Highbury,” Arthur said. “She seems to take ill quite easily, and according to her aunt she has been rather more off her health than usual ever since last fall.”

“Yes, she has a weak constitution, and a nervous one. How did she react to you?”

“React?” Arthur tried to think back to the last time he and Mr. Perry had called in to check on Miss Fairfax. It was hard to separate much from the background chatter of her aunt, but… “Now that I think of it, she looked a little frightened of me. As hard as that is to believe.”

Curt sighed. “I thought that might have been the case.”

“Why?”

“October last, I encountered her near Col. Campbell’s house in Weymouth, in a most dire way. Her dress was torn, her hair disarrayed, her face injured and running with tears—I expect you will not breathe a word of this to any one, of course!”

“Naturally not,” Arthur assured him, setting his own hand on the hand that rested on his waist and gripping it warmly.

Curt nodded. “She was terrified to see me, but after I gave her my jacket to cover herself with, she began to see that I was not her enemy, and after a little coaxing finally explained that she had just been the victim of a most brutal assault. She has never told me the identity of the man who forced himself upon her, but I know he was a member of the same social circles that Col. Campbell travelled in while they were vacationing in Weymouth.”

“Forced himself upon…are there really men who do such awful things?”

Curt chuckled grimly. “You  _ have _ led a sheltered life, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so.” There was none of that going on inside a draper’s shop or an apothecary’s, and Arthur had never really been anywhere but his father’s shop and Mr. Perry’s. And the wagon of the nice gentleman who had given him a ride all the way to London and introduced him to Mr. Perry.

“Well, I am sorry to say that there are many such men in the world, even among society. Miss Fairfax was terrified that she might have been left with child by the experience, but thankfully she was not.” Curt smiled mirthlessly. “It was when she expressed that fear, a few days after the attack, that I first said I would marry her to help her escape her situation.”

“Marriage?” Was  _ that _ why Curt was always calling on Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax?

“At the time I only meant to provide a putative father for the child, but as the month wore on and we grew closer, and I saw how fearful she was of every man other than myself and Col. Campbell…” Curt shook his head. “By the end of the month, I had offered to marry her regardless of whether or not she was to bear her attacker’s child. But only on the understanding, of course, that I do not care for women in that way.”

“And she agreed to that?”

“After what she went through, she says she never want another man to touch her, not like that.” Curt let go of Arthur’s waist and stroked the hair on the back of his head. “When I speak to her to-day, I will let her know that she does not need to fear you.”

“And you really are going to marry her?”

“Yes, assuming I can find a way to convince my aunt to allow it.”

“Your aunt?” Arthur repeated, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. “Would it not be more normal to worry about your uncle?” The story had it that it was his uncle who had disavowed Curt’s mother for marrying below her station all those years ago, after all.

“My uncle is a relatively easy man to manipulate, and his pride is not so inflexible as all that. My aunt is a harpy in human form, and the pride she has in the status she married into is adamantine.” Curt scowled. “I am convinced that all her illnesses are entirely fictional, done purely to force me to remain nearby where she can keep her eye on me.”

“Why? Surely she cannot be doating on you, if you would call her a harpy.”

Curt let out a miserable sigh. “Years ago, when I was just a boy of fourteen, my aunt caught me with one of the servants. She was outraged and horrified, of course. Sent him away—I know not where, or in what state—and began to guard me to prevent my sinning again.” He shook his head. “At least I was not disowned over the affair, as she could not bring herself to tell my uncle about it, since I am of his blood, and it would have suggested some flaw in his family line.” He frowned. “Her zeal might not have become so obsessive if she had not learned a few years back that I had managed to find other lovers despite her interference.”

“My father said I was shaming my whole family,” Arthur agreed. “Though I was only…fantasizing…” He coughed uncomfortably, dreading any request for further details. “I am surprised to hear you would have been willing to engage in such activities with a servant, not with your upbringing.”

Curt laughed. “Oh, you would not be if you had been there! He was…well, at the time he was the ideal of my eye. Perhaps I would not be so fascinated if I were to meet him again now. But then, of course, I had not yet met Brian.”

“Then you and Lord Slade really are…?”

“Not any longer.” Curt grimaced. “But that was the other thing I wanted to say to you, though it may come too late. You should avoid Brian for at least a few weeks, if not for ever.”

“Why?”

“I am sure it will not surprise you to learn that I went to see him last week before I came here.”

“I had rather assumed as much,” Arthur agreed. What else could have accounted for the manic state Curt had been in?

“I was far too worked up to be rational, and I ended up showing him your letter. I should have shown him the one from Mrs. Weston that contained much of the same information, but yours was so much more direct. And  _ she _ did not say that he was infatuated with that illegitimate trollup.”

Arthur winced to hear poor Miss Smith so abused, but what could he say? If he was in Curt’s position, he would probably be just as spiteful. “I shall do all I can to avoid him,” he said instead. Best to move the conversation on to some more pleasant subject. “But you had best tell me everything about this ball. Mr. Perry will want to know all the details, and if I cannot furnish them…”

Curt laughed. “Of course. We will be holding it in about a week’s time. I had not originally planned to help my step-mother with the arrangements, but if it gives me a chance to see you, I will manufacture an excuse to do so…”

*******

For the first week after Curt’s return to Highbury, Arthur was kept so busy that he was barely aware of the gossip flying through the air all about him. In fact, he heard most of it from Mrs. Perry as she pressed him for the details he had not had time to hear, rather than hearing it while he was out running errands for Mr. Perry or helping Curt with the ball. It was only from her that Arthur learned that all of Highbury had become aware of the split between Curt and Lord Slade, even if they didn’t understand the true nature of it. Of course, how could they not have noticed? Before he left Highbury in March, Curt had spent so much time at Colfax that his own father had barely gotten to see him for the last week of his visit, yet now he had been back a week (with daily nine-mile rides to and from Richmond) and had yet to attend upon Lord Slade even once!

Over the two days immediately prior to the ball, Arthur had to spend an increasing amount of time at the Crown Inn itself, aiding in the planning and then installation of the repairs, draught-stops and decorations. It was arduous work, but Curt was there for most of it, so Arthur went about every task cheerfully, even though Curt was barely free even to glance in his direction, let alone speak to him. That only made it all the more wonderful whenever Curt was able to manufacture an opportunity for them to spend a few quiet moments talking, wasting only seconds of it on talk of the inn, giving them time to talk of absolutely anything else, exchanging their thoughts or tales of their lives before they met. They did not dare even hint at their secret romantic interlude, but they did not need to; every time their eyes met, it felt to Arthur’s heart as if they were kissing again.

Still, it was a relief when the day of the ball came; getting back to his usual duties with Mr. Perry would be relaxing and calm after the physical labour involved in getting the Crown Inn ready for Highbury society to come and dance the night away. Arthur was in attendance only in a servile function, assisting Otway and the others who worked for Mrs. Stokes in guiding guests and ensuring that they had everything they needed. Still, as someone who had played a surprisingly large role in getting the decorations in place, Arthur felt a personal gratification whenever he heard anyone comment on how lovely every thing looked; the compliments even made it worth listening to Miss Bates’s endless prattle, in which she compared the room to a fairy land, and the work of Arthur and the others in getting it kitted up to that which would have been produced by Aladdin’s lamp. The unpleasant side of that same coin, though, was that while Arthur was standing unobserved by the wall as Miss Bates prattled on, Curt was standing there with a subtle hand on Miss Fairfax’s back (left there after he helped her on with her shawl) and constantly making eye contact with Miss Woodhouse. Even though Arthur knew better, it was hard not to see those signs as indicating romantic attachment, which caused an aching jealousy in the pit of his stomach such that even if he had been allowed to partake in the dinner that would be served later in the evening, he would not have dared do so.

The dancing had not yet started when Lord Slade arrived. Once he was in the room, he turned his steps directly towards Curt, who stood chatting with Miss Fairfax, Miss Bates and Miss Woodhouse still, rather than turning towards Miss Smith, who stood some feet away with Mr. Knightley and the Westons. Curt saw him coming, and waited until he was not more than three feet away—in easy hearing distance but outside the range of polite conversation—to turn to Miss Woodhouse and suggest that they should lead the way in the first dance, or else no one should ever begin the dancing. Miss Woodhouse agreed with a smile, either not having noticed Lord Slade or not caring about how they were slighting him.

Every one else noticed.

Lord Slade pretended to be unaffected, but Arthur had a view of his face and saw the rage there. To Arthur’s ears, he even  _ sounded _ angry as he asked Miss Smith for a turn about the dance floor; the fact that Miss Smith’s voice trembled as she agreed suggested that Arthur had not imagined the ire in Lord Slade’s tones. None of those Miss Smith had been standing with seemed to have noticed, though, as all their conversation following her departure was simply to wonder if it was truly proper for a man of Lord Slade’s status to be dancing with a girl of Miss Smith’s. Mr. Knightley soon enough closed that line of conversation by saying that “I doubt there is the slightest thing in the world any of us could do to stop him from dancing with her even if we should be so inclined.”

Curt continued dancing with Miss Woodhouse for the second turn, but for the third he switched to Miss Fairfax. Over the course of the evening, Curt danced at least once with almost every young lady present (though still primarily favouring Miss Woodhouse, with a slight further preference for Miss Fairfax), but Lord Slade gave not a moment of his time to any lady other than Miss Smith. He  _ was _ willing to speak to other ladies—mostly Miss Woodhouse—but only with Miss Smith standing at his side. In the first few pauses when neither of them was dancing, Lord Slade again attempted to approach Curt, but after the third or fourth time Curt took to the dance to escape him, Lord Slade stopped trying.

Again, every one noticed.

By the end of the evening, all the hushed conversations in the ball-room and in the card-room were of the way Curt Wild was slighting Lord Slade, and all of them of course agreeing that it had to be because of Lord Slade’s unaccountable attachment to Miss Smith. And yet they also seemed to be in agreement that Curt’s behaviour was completely unacceptable and frightfully rude, far beyond what was merited by Lord Slade’s inappropriate affections.

There was, in fact, only one conversation towards the evening’s end that was on any other subject, as far as Arthur could hear. He had the misfortune to be nearby when the Eltons stopped to regard the dancing couples with obvious distaste. “I do wish Curt Wild would leave dear Jane alone!” Mrs. Elton lamented. “He will have her completely worn out if they dance much longer. Do you think I should rescue her, Mr. E?”

“You need not put yourself out for Miss Fairfax; Knightley is keeping an eye on her and will not let him injure her. It is his friend whose conduct alarms me. Are we even certain that is truly Lord Slade and not some imposter? For a baron to spend so much time with a girl like Miss Smith is completely inconceivable. No, no, I think we ought to send off to the real Lord Slade and let him know what this charlatan is up to. I should expect the girl put him up to it somehow. I do not know why Miss Woodhouse tolerates such a creature.”

“Well, she does seem to fit Miss Woodhouse’s peculiar personality,” Mrs. Elton commented, with a cold laugh. “For a girl of such good breeding, she is surprisingly—oh, Miss Bates! How  _ are _ you enjoying the evening?”

The arrival of Miss Bates, of course, put an end to any attempt at conversation or thought. But after the venom of the Eltons—related, Arthur suspected, to Miss Woodhouse’s earlier attempts to foster a romance between Miss Smith and Mr. Elton—Miss Bates and her cheerful, friendly patter was a relief.

Arthur, of course, spent much of the evening imagining the horror and chagrin that would be on Mr. Elton’s face if he did try to contact Lord Slade’s estate only to be told that Lord Slade was currently in Highbury!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah...there's so much wrong with my version of the ball that it kind of makes me cringe. (But at least *I* didn't imply it was being held at Randalls!)


	10. Chapter 10

After the ball, Curt stayed the night at Randalls, and then departed back to Richmond at first light, sending a brief note to Miss Woodhouse explaining that after his having been away for twenty-four hours, he was sure his aunt would expect him to remain at her side for several days, as even though she was doing better since the remove to Richmond, her health was still quite poorly. He also sent a note to Arthur, asking him to send word every evening, relating every thing he heard about Brian—no matter how small or trivial—during the day until Curt was next in Highbury. There was the chance that the boy wouldn’t cooperate, or might lie out of jealousy, but who else could Curt trust? Miss Fairfax didn’t get out enough, and he would never be able to get a private word to her anyway, not with  _ her _ aunt constantly jabbering in her ear. (Still, at least Miss Bates was kind. Irritating though she could be, she was worlds better than Curt’s aunt!)

Things in Richmond were grim. His aunt, of course, imperiously demanded to know every thing that had happened at this ball he had spent a whole night away over, and regarded him suspiciously every time he mentioned any man other than his father. (Naturally, he had the sense not to mention Brian in any context!) His uncle was more interested in knowing about the two young ladies Curt could not avoid mentioning repeatedly.

“Miss Emma Woodhouse lives at Hartfield, about half a mile from my father’s home at Randalls,” Curt told him. “She is the leader of Highbury society in most respects, though quite young—only one and twenty. Her father is of rather delicate health, which gives us something in common,” he added, favouring his aunt with a particularly artificial smile that he hoped she  _ knew _ was completely false. “As to Miss Jane Fairfax, she is someone I knew slightly in London, and better in Weymouth. Her mother was a Miss Bates of Highbury, until she married a Lieutenant Fairfax. However, he died in battle not long after Miss Fairfax was born. A friend of his, Colonel Campbell, raised Miss Fairfax following the early decease of her mother, bringing the girl up alongside his own daughter at his home in London.”

Curt’s uncle nodded, and had a few kind words to share, as he had heard of Col. Campbell, and believed him to be known universally as a generous and most proper gentleman. His aunt was not so charitably inclined, and had nothing to say about either lady except to ask after their fortunes. “Miss Woodhouse is likely to inherit Hartfield, and half of her father’s funds, as she has but one sibling, an elder sister,” Curt told her, which did not satisfy her nearly as much as he expected, “and I cannot say what is the state of Miss Fairfax’s fortune.” His own words gave him a thought as to how to resolve the issue. Perhaps he could somehow falsify a fortune for her to make her acceptable as a wife. Her breeding was not ideal, but genteel enough that it might pass, since she provided a connection to the Campbells despite that she was not actually related to them. If Curt could generate a large sum of money on his own through some speculation or other, he could give it to Miss Fairfax and they could claim it was her inheritance. That might satisfy even his aunt, if it was large enough. Though really it seemed absurd that she was being so particular about what women he was spending his time with. She should have been satisfied that there were women at all!

Arthur’s first note arrived in Richmond the next morning. “I hardly know what to tell you,” it began. “You know what things are like in this town. People will not have done talking about the ball for at least a week, unless something else exceptional should happen. All the talk of Lord Slade there has been to-day that I have heard has been to wonder what was the quarrel between the two of you that you would not speak to him at the ball. Of course, most people quickly conclude that it was because of Miss Smith, and they assume you are refusing to speak to him until he shall come to his senses and part ways with her. If that should happen, it did not happen to-day. Since she was taken in at Hartfield, I have noticed that Lord Slade will pass through town to see her always at the same hour of the morning, and stay either until just before luncheon, or until mid-afternoon. To-day he passed through town towards Hartfield at the usual time of the morning, and made the return trip to Colfax in the mid-afternoon.”

It was not what Curt wanted to hear, but he had hardly expected to hear anything else. If Brian was going to wake up and grasp the magnitude of every thing he was giving up by persisting in paying attentions to that girl, he was unlikely to do it so quickly. Brian was notoriously stubborn, after all. It would take more than one evening’s rejection to make him realise that he had to choose between Curt and Miss Smith.

And if he was going to make the correct decision, he would have to have Curt present yet just out of reach, taunting his desire while being plainly open to reconciliation on one very specific condition.

That, of course, was easier said than done in a great many ways. Curt could only be in Highbury during the daytime, with a few (very rare) exceptions, After he had remained in Richmond long enough to allay his aunt’s most excessive fears of his “relapse into wicked ways,” he set out to Highbury one morning, heading straight to the apothecary’s shop even before going to Randalls to greet his father. Arthur was pleased to see him, but his smile faltered and faded when Curt gave him no fond greeting, but went straight to asking about Brian.

Arthur duly provided the times when Brian could be seen riding through town on his way to and from Hartfield, but then frowned. “I really do not think anything will shake him from his affection for Miss Smith,” he said. “You should have seen the madness in his eyes when he thought himself forbidden from her company. He—it is no simple infatuation; it may border on obsession. You cannot reason with someone in the grip of such an obsession.”

“I do not plan on reasoning with him at all. There are ways to reach someone without reason,” Curt assured him.

“But…” Arthur bit his lip, and his eyes suddenly appeared watery.

Curt sighed, and stroked the boy’s hair gently. “Some day you will understand how it feels to see the man you love going about with some one else,” he said, before heading back out to the street.

Just to make his anguish even more acute, he thought he heard Arthur quietly reply “I already do,” as the door was opening.

Curt’s visit with his father was brief but pleasant (thank God some things could still be pleasant and friendly!) and over in plenty of time for Curt to be on the main street as Brian began his daily pilgrimage to Hartfield. He waited until Brian had seen him and slowed his carriage, then went to the Bateses’ door and rang for admittance. The maid let him in just before Brian could reach him.  _ Perfect _ timing.

The maid led Curt up the stairs to the parlour, explaining as she did so that Miss Bates had gone out on errands, and that Mrs. Bates was feeling sickly and still abed. So he was finally to have a few minutes alone with Miss Fairfax? To-day really was working out beautifully well!

Once the maid was gone, Miss Fairfax took a seat at the piano-forte (itself a painful reminder of Brian, as he had inadvertently set the notion of sending it in Curt’s head) and began to play quietly. Curt followed her over and found that she was looking at him with an irritation that bordered on disgust. “This infamous quarrel you are having with Lord Slade,” she started, her voice just low enough that there was no chance the maid could overhear anything but the piano-forte, “is not one simply between two  _ friends _ , is it?”

“Of course not.”

She shook her head. “You should let them be. Miss Smith is a fine young lady who deserves a better happiness than her birth would normally allow.”

“She only desires his fortune and title.”

“I do not believe that is the case at all,” Miss Fairfax said. “She seems quite taken by surprise by the affection he showers upon her. She is also sadly ignorant of certain ways of the world, ways that I am not.”

“Ah…” There was a hard edge to her voice that alarmed Curt, but he could not quite find a way to form it into words.

“She told me about a snippet of a letter she had seen at Colfax before the quarrel began. A letter from Lord Slade to you, about Ganymede and ambrosia.”

Curt cleared his throat uncomfortably. This was not going in a good direction. “Oh, that letter. That was nothing to—”

“I am not a fool,” Miss Fairfax insisted, her playing getting louder to cover the snip in her voice. “Col. Campbell has told us the harm that can be caused by men giving in to indulgence in opium, and I will not share my life with an opium-eater. I would sooner go to some Papist land and become a nun.”

Curt laughed despite himself. “Is there no middle ground between me and a nunnery?”

Miss Fairfax continued her playing and did not answer.

“There is no need to book ship anywhere,” Curt sighed. “I am not a—” Surely it would not do to lie and claim he had never taken opium for the pleasure it provided, so where did that leave him? “The Ganymede in question turned out not to be so cooperative as Brian was expecting. He caught on that we neither of us needed the laudanum and refused to provide me any.”

“What did he provide instead, if you were so quick to assure me I had no need to fear him?” Curt reflected bitterly that someone was most exceedingly sharp to-day! Though she probably spent most of her time thinking about these sorts of things while her aunt prattled on about every thing and nothing.

“Is that not obvious?” Curt laughed uncomfortably. “Companionship of a very particular sort that I would not dream of mentioning in front of a lady.”

“And you judged that to be preferable to opium?”

“Of course.”

“Then what is the point of continuing to quarrel with Lord Slade if you have replaced him?” Miss Fairfax asked, looking Curt straight in the eye.

Curt sighed. “I doubt I can explain so you would understand. You have never been in love—”

“I thank God for it.”

“—and it is not really a matter which a lady—or even a more proper gentleman than myself—should engage in or even understand.” He could not possibly express in words to a girl such as Miss Fairfax—especially after what she had suffered in Weymouth—the desperate need a man could suffer for companionship in the most intimate bed-room sense.

Miss Fairfax seemed to accept that as an answer, and did not speak for several minutes. “Do you honestly believe you will be able to convince your uncle and aunt into accepting me as your bride?” she asked abruptly, ending her silence.

“My uncle, yes, eventually. My aunt is a far more difficult prospect,” Curt had to admit. “If I play up your connection to the Campbells, and I can find a fortune for you…”

“Where would you do that?”

Curt had no ready response. If he could repair his relations with Brian, perhaps Brian’s funds could provide a false fortune, but since Miss Fairfax seemed to prefer the idea of a permanent split between them, that did not seem like a good suggestion at this time. “I still have yet to think of a method,” he had to admit, “but I am working on it. There are speculations that might return large amounts of money, but they require an unpleasant amount of risk. I am trying to find one with minimal risks and hasty rewards.” Unfortunately, cheating at cards seemed to be the best of them, and he did not think he would be very good at that, even if he knew where to find such an improper game as would allow gambling upon its outcome. Robbing the Bank of London also seemed very profitable, but he would be much worse at that, he was quite sure, even if he had the faintest idea of how to go about it or the inclination to try. Investing in fledgling businesses and mining schemes were probably the most ethical ways to make money, but they took years to pay off in any decent amount, and were hardly reliable, as most failed.

Miss Fairfax started to reply, but did not get further than a few words before the door opened to let in Miss Bates’ voice, followed by Miss Bates herself, putting an end to all conversation.

*******

Following the ball, every day Amanda felt a tension rising in Highbury. Not only had Mr. Curt Wild so publically snubbed and humiliated Lord Slade, as the weeks wore on, he continued to do so. Rumours would come back to Hartfield—sometimes borne there by Mrs. Weston herself!—that Mr. Curt Wild seemed to linger in town waiting for Lord Slade to go by just so he could make himself scarce before Lord Slade could speak to him. Mr. Curt Wild, of course, had not given up on his visits to Emma, but he plainly knew Lord Slade’s habitual schedule, and never once called until after the hour when Lord Slade left. He also typically made it clear—even if he would not say so openly—that he did not want Amanda present for his visit.

Amanda did not mind leaving, as she was quite sure that Emma did not require her presence either for companionship or to protect her reputation. Besides, Amanda found it more enlightening to remove to the next room where she could listen to their conversation without being expected to take part in it. While Emma still seemed to believe that Mr. Curt Wild was in love with her, she did say that she thought he was less in love than he had been during his prior, brief occupancy at Randalls. In listening to their conversations, Amanda could not bring herself to agree with Emma on that; there seemed to be nothing to his affections for Emma apart from hot air and laughter.

By the beginning of June, Amanda was not sure how much more she could take. Every rumour that she heard of either of them, every glance of Lord Slade’s at Emma, every gesture of Mr. Curt Wild’s when he came to Hartfield, all of them screamed at her that she had driven an insuperable wedge between two whose friendship prior to her unintentional interference had been the most perfect of all possible friendships. That made her, as far as she could tell, into the most monstrous creature Highbury had ever seen. As she had no desire to be any such beastly thing, surely that meant it was her duty to restore their previous intimacy.

Upon Lord Slade’s next visit, therefore, Amanda resolved to bring the matter up. At a lull in the conversation, she moved to a chair closer to Lord Slade, where she could take his hand in hers and look straight into his eyes. “If I ask you a question of the most dire importance,” she began, “may I count upon your answer to be entirely honest?”

“You know I would never lie to you, my dear Miss Smith,” he replied, closing his fingers tightly around hers. “What is troubling you?”

“I want to know what is the quarrel between yourself and Mr. Curt Wild.”

A brief transformation took place on Lord Slade’s face, so quickly repressed that Amanda had no hope of understanding it accurately. Anger, disgust, humiliation, regret, it could have been any of them, all of them, or none of them. “Surely that is not an issue you need to concern yourself over, Miss Smith.”

“Lord Slade, I see the pain of it in your every movement and gesture. Before your arrival in Highbury, he was your most precious and intimate friend.”

“Yes, so intimate that friendship was hardly the right term to describe it,” Lord Slade sighed, with a mournful look. The idea that there might have been a romantic component to their relationship passed briefly and beautifully through Amanda’s mind before she forcibly repressed such a scandalous notion.

“And I cannot look at the way that friendship has fractured without thinking that I am to blame,” Amanda went on.

“No, Miss Smith, you cannot blame yourself,” he said, tightening his grip on her fingers. “The blame is Curt’s for being so intractable in his demands upon my time.”

“But the ultimate root of the quarrel is still myself, is it not?”

Lord Slade had to avert his gaze from hers, his lower lip trembling as if fighting to prevent him from replying.

“Amanda, perhaps this line of discussion would be best left for some other time,” Emma suggested, a tone of command in her voice.

“No,” Lord Slade said, his imperious tone overriding hers to such an extent that Emma seemed unsure whether to obey silently or become quite irate. “To leave this for later would only make it worse. Go on, Miss Smith. Release whatever worries are gnawing at your mind.”

“I want to know how to cure this ill that has been done to you,” Amanda explained. “How to restore your friendship without—without having to say good-bye.”

Lord Slade shut his eyes and shook his head sadly. “I doubt it is possible,” he said when he opened them again. “Curt has made it clear that he wants me to choose between your companionship and his. I will never reward his selfishness by ruining my own happiness.”

Amanda’s heart was set so aflutter by the compliment that her companionship was an important component of Lord Slade’s happiness that she did not fight it when Emma again urged a new subject of conversation, this time the entirely harmless and rather pointless observation that the gardens at Donwell Abbey would soon be in their fullest flower, including some of the finest strawberry beds to be found any where. Lord Slade’s responses were so patronising that they set Emma into a bit of a temper, which drove Lord Slade away earlier than usual.

Over luncheon, Amanda found her earlier unhappy mood returning with great force. “I shall have to do some thing about it,” she announced.

“Do some thing about what, Amanda?” Mr. Woodhouse asked.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Curt Wild about his quarrel with Lord Slade,” she explained. “There must be a way I can reconcile them. I should hate to be the instrument of the destruction of such a precious friendship. Especially since Lord Slade will be leaving Highbury in August, likely never to see me again.” The thought was the stab of an icicle in her heart, but she had made a point of reminding herself of that at least once every day since moving in at Hartfield.

Mr. Woodhouse made a mild comment about what a good-natured child she was, and returned his attention to his food. Emma seemed concerned, but did not attempt to dissuade Amanda. “I believe he is at Randalls to-day,” she said, “so perhaps we could call on him after luncheon.”

Amanda thanked her for her indulgence, and the meal concluded in an awkward silence that continued to manifest over them for the entire half-mile  walk  to Randalls. When they arrived, the butler returned to the door after consulting within and informed them that Mr. Curt Wild was not in to them. Emma smiled at him coldly, and stepped slightly in front of Amanda. “Miss Smith was only accompanying me on the walk here. She has business of her own to attend to nearby. Isn’t that right, Amanda?”

Uneasily, Amanda nodded. The butler hesitated a moment, then asked Emma to follow him inside. Having no other calls to make and ill wanting to make the long walk back to Hartfield alone, Amanda lingered in the shade beneath one of the trees near the house. Nothing seemed to be stirring—there wasn’t even a breeze—except for the brief motion of Mr. Perry’s apprentice quietly slipping around from the back of the house and hurrying towards the village. Idly, Amanda wondered if one of the servants was ill, and tried to keep herself from focusing on the reason she was there by trying to guess which one, and what was wrong with them.

It seemed hours before Emma emerged again, but Emma insisted it could not have been more than a quarter of an hour. “He seems quite entirely opposed to any notion of forgiveness,” Emma sighed, shaking her head. “I did assure him that you never wished to come between them, but that is all that I was able to accomplish.”

Amanda nodded, but for most of the walk back to Hartfield, she wondered just how hard Emma had actually tried. She had not, after all, ever been shy in saying that Amanda should not be spending so much time and affection on Lord Slade.

*******

By early June, Curt seemed to be despairing of finding any way to convince Lord Slade to give up on Miss Smith. There were fewer and fewer days that Arthur witnessed Curt lingering in town to taunt Lord Slade with his presence. On the other hand, by the last week of May, he had already begun manufacturing excuses for Arthur to come to Randalls to see him.

The first incident had been the best, of course. Curt had come into the shop one day in his daily ritual of provoking Lord Slade (or perhaps he had expected Lord Slade would follow him into Mr. Perry’s shop, unlike the home of the Bateses), and seemed momentarily at a loss when Mr. Perry asked him what he wanted. Then he had grinned—that charming, slightly roguish expression that Arthur adored so!—and said “I need to borrow your lad here to help revive a fainted woman.”

“Is she ill?” Mr. Perry asked, sounding alarmed. “Who is it, not Mrs. Weston?”

“No, no, one of the gipsies who have been passing through town. She fainted on the road just outside Randalls.”

“Ah.” Mr. Perry cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I suppose it is our duty to help her. Take a vial of smelling salts with you, boy. And not a single coin.”

“Yes, Mr. Perry.” Arthur quickly grabbed the smelling salts and followed Curt out of the shop. They did not speak until they were approaching Randalls, and Arthur saw no sign of the gipsies. “Where is she?” he asked. “I thought the gipsies left town more than a week ago.”

“They did, as far as I know,” Curt replied, with a laugh. “It was the first excuse I could think of.”

Arthur laughed, too, perhaps more out of his delight that Curt was once again stooping to subterfuge to spend time with him than because he found the situation at all humorous. Curt led the way towards a tall brace of plant life that Arthur would have described as a hedge row if it had not been some eight or nine feet tall. Given its height, he was quite unsure what the proper name for it was, but it did not seem like it would provide them with any privacy except from those on the road. “Where are we going?”

“Just wait and see!” As Curt led him forward, Arthur discovered that the neatly-trimmed, quite enormously tall bushes had a bit of a knot at the corner. “These hedges were planted to block a portion of the view from the estate,” Curt explained, “because it gives an unpleasant view down the hill all the way to the Abbey Mill farm in winter, giving a good look right into their stables.” He chuckled. “At least, that is what I was told. But there is a delightful little secret here…” He walked up to the hedge row and seemed to disappear right into the knotted portion. As Arthur followed him, he discovered that there was a very narrow opening that led into a wider clearing that filled most of the knot. “Almost no way to be found in here,” Curt said, drawing Arthur closer to him with a hand on his waist.

Arthur responded gladly when Curt kissed him—it had been so long he could feel the need of it through his whole body—but he was soon overtaken by worry. “Are you sure we shall not be found out? If you found this place…”

Curt laughed. “I was  _ told _ about this place.” He kissed Arthur again, deep and passionate. “You will never guess by whom.”

“Probably not,” Arthur agreed.

“Only by the most sombre, uptight man in the whole of Highbury.”

Arthur pondered that a moment. The most sombre, uptight man in Highbury, in Arthur’s experience, was the old widower who lived on the other side of the vicarage, and needed Mr. Perry’s services almost as often as Mr. Woodhouse, but had less than half his funds to pay for them. There was no chance Curt had even met him. Of the people Curt  _ would _ have met… “Mr. Knightley?” Arthur guessed.

“The one and only,” Curt agreed, laughing again.

“Why in the world…?”

“The first day I returned to Highbury after the ball,” Curt explained, “he told me about an incident last summer when his favourite dog disappeared for a week, chasing after a rabbit or some such thing. The animal was eventually found in this little hollow. He thought I should know about it, in case any of the gipsies found it and decided to make a little camp in it to raid my father’s house.” Curt shook his head. “In my experience, gipsies do not actually do such things, but the anecdote was well worth it!” He kissed Arthur again. “Surely you must agree that this is the ideal trysting place.”

“I should like one with a roof and a door, but it is far better than nothing,” Arthur had agreed.

It had been a beautiful meeting, even if they (or rather Arthur) had not dared do anything more than kiss, and because the alleged patient had only been a gipsy, Mr. Perry had not asked a single detail about the excursion. Later visits had been less convenient, less passionate, and occasionally strained, but at least they were able to be together, and Curt only rarely wanted to talk about Brian.

Whenever Arthur had an errand to run that took him anywhere near Randalls, he stopped there to see if Curt was in to spend a few minutes with him. Some days he was not in, but most times, Arthur had some reward for making the trip, even if it was no more than a smile and a few friendly words that were necessarily bland because the servants or the Westons were listening.

One early June day, he had barely arrived when a servant came to inform Curt that Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith were there to see him. Curt refused to meet with Miss Smith, and said so in a particularly ungentlemanly fashion, but the servant returned all too soon, relating that Miss Woodhouse alone wished to speak to him. Curt had no way of refusing her—he did not, honestly, even look like he  _ wanted _ to refuse, and Arthur was left sneaking out the back as if he was a common thief.

It did not seem a problem until he reached the main road, and found that Lord Slade was sitting there in a carriage so small he was driving it himself. Seeing Arthur emerge onto the road, Lord Slade’s blank expression contorted into one of hate, and he snapped the reins so hard that the horse broke into a run straight towards Arthur. Arthur leaped out of the road to escape being trampled by the hooves or smashed by the wheels, but it was a near thing.

Arthur’s heart was pounding in his breast the whole walk back to the shop.

What was he to do now? Lord Slade surely had come to attempt to repair his relations with Curt, only to enter into a jealous rage at the realisation that he had in any small way been replaced. Now he would likely never be willing to return to their former state of intimacy. Would Curt hate Arthur if he found out? And could Arthur live with himself if he did not tell him the truth about it?

The incident nagged at Arthur for the rest of the day, and his conscience ate at him so badly that he did not get a single wink of sleep in the night. The following day, he sat down and wrote a letter to Curt explaining what had happened—in necessarily vague terms, as he could not be certain that the letter might not be intercepted and its contents seen by eyes other than Curt’s—then sent it off to him at Richmond by the post.

That was surely the end of his first romance—perhaps the only one he would ever have—but there was nothing for it. Arthur did not want to continue things as they were based on a falsehood. Better to end with a clear conscience than to spend a lifetime plagued by guilt.


	11. Chapter 11

The day Lord Slade failed to show up came just past the middle of June. Despite how Amanda had always told herself the day would come, that whatever he found so intriguing about her would pass and she would become just another boring woman to him, she still felt quite crushed when it finally happened. But there they were, sitting in the parlour at Hartfield more than an hour after his usual arrival time, and still they were alone, just Amanda and Emma.

“I have some errands to run in town,” Emma eventually announced, patting Amanda’s hand. “Will you come with me? Getting out of the house for a while will do you good.”

But Amanda was in no mood to run silly errands, and Emma had obviously known that. She was doubtless glad of the excuse to be alone without Amanda moping along beside her. But if having her heart broken by the most divine man in all the world was not an excuse to be mopish, then what ever could be?

Amanda began listlessly pacing through the halls and parlours of Hartfield, and had just come to the small parlour, where her steps had to slow to a crawl lest she wake Mr. Woodhouse, who dozed near the fire as usual, when she heard the front door. Assuming that Emma had returned early, Amanda thought nothing of it, standing where she was and staring morosely at the portrait of herself on the wall which had somehow started her intimacy with Lord Slade.

Much to her surprise, some moments later she heard his voice, as if her fervent desire to see him again had summoned him like a genie from a lamp. “Why, here you are, Miss Smith.”

Amanda turned and saw Lord Slade standing there and looking as pristine and perfect as always, in a light-coloured summer suit that made him look like Apollo himself. “Lord Slade! You—I—” Her exclamation was cut short as Mr. Woodhouse grunted in his sleep, stirring in his chair but not waking.

“Perhaps we ought to seek another chamber,” Lord Slade suggested quietly, approaching her. “So as not to wake sleeping beauty over there.”

Amanda laughed. “Best not,” she said, shaking her head. “Chaperoned visits were part of the arrangement, after all. I suppose we ought to wake him,” she added, though she was loath to do so.

“Not at all,” Lord Slade assured her, taking her hand and leading her to a small fainting couch on the far side of the small parlour that barely had room for the both of them. “As long as we are in here with him, we obey the letter of the law, if not its spirit.”

Amanda did not fully repress a giggle. “More little acts of wickedness?” she asked, almost teasingly.

“Of course. But best of all, this one is performed by us both together,” Lord Slade said, taking hold of her hand and squeezing it gently, setting her heart to flurrying. “Though I should admit that this makes the second of my wickednesses to-day.”

“Oh, were you late because you were stealing a kiss from some innocent maiden? Or perhaps borrowing pennies from the offerings plate at the chapel?”

Lord Slade laughed. “I was late because I meant to be late, and therein of course lies the wickedness.”

“Why would you mean to be late?” Had he been testing her? Had she passed or failed?

“I hoped to manufacture the chance to speak with you alone, of course,” Lord Slade said, his voice barely more than a whisper in her ear.

“Do you tire of Miss Woodhouse’s company already?” Amanda asked, trying to deny the excitement thrilling through her.

“It is not that I dislike Miss Woodhouse, precisely,” Lord Slade said, his words slow as if he was choosing them with the utmost care—even greater care than he normally took with his words. “However, it cannot be denied that she frequently interposes herself between us and attempts to speak for you rather than letting you speak for yourself. If it was Miss Woodhouse I was calling upon, or both of you together, that would be entirely acceptable, but for the chaperon to insist upon the lion’s share of the conversation? No, no, entirely out of the question.”

Amanda laughed sadly. “Miss Woodhouse does have that bad habit,” she agreed sadly. “Normally I don’t mind…”

“I find, too, that you are quite changed since relocating here.”

“Changed? Really?” Amanda thought about it a moment, then sighed sadly. “I suppose I seem that way,” she agreed. “Miss Woodhouse’s friendship was the greater part of what gave me the courage to break from the mould Mrs. Goddard wished to force me into, and yet I have rarely had the courage to show my true self in front of Miss Woodhouse herself. I suppose that sounds quite absurd, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Lord Slade assured her, squeezing her hand yet tighter. “I must confess to find it a relief, in fact.”

“A relief?”

“If your change indicated that you had been convinced that our previous intimacy was in some way an error…”

“Oh no!” Amanda exclaimed, so loudly that Mr. Woodhouse stirred again, and she had to drop her voice to an excited whisper lest she wake him entirely. “I have so greatly missed it that it has become quite intolerable!”

Lord Slade smiled warmly, and they fell into a soft, sweet, quiet conversation of the sort that they had not had since Mrs. Goddard tried to send Amanda away. They had not been conversing long before Lord Slade suddenly gathered Amanda’s other hand into his own, holding both her hands close to his chest. “Ah, it is as though a missing piece of my soul is returned!” he exclaimed. “I had not realised until this moment just how much you had become a part of me.”

“I…” Amanda could not find words to speak. Was this…was this a confession of love? Surely it could not be—not from a man of Lord Slade’s standing—not to a woman as inconsequential as she!

“I cannot bear the idea of being robbed of the pleasure of your true self again,” Lord Slade went on. “I must humbly crave that you will give my existence meaning by agreeing to be my wife.”

Amanda’s breath was stolen from her lungs, and she could only stare into his beautiful, earnest eyes in astonished wonder. “Me…? Marriage…?” she finally said when the air returned to her again. “But I…I am nobody!”

“I think you are quite everyone.”

“I do not have any—I was not born into any legal marriage—a man of your stature could not have that kind of scandal, surely…”

Lord Slade laughed, drawing her into his arms. “Noble families are rife with illegitimacy,” he said. “And if your father will not come forward to claim you as his daughter, then I shall tell the world your father is some foreign monarch and make you into the princess you so richly deserve to be. The princess who will be Childe Maxwell’s reward at the climax of his journey of self-improvement.”

Amanda could think of no other words, and allowed herself to be held thus in his warm, comforting arms, even going so far as to grasp him back, if not so tightly. Could this truly be? It was every thing she had wanted ever since meeting him, but for someone like her to enter into a marriage with a baron…would any one allow it?

She was woken from her dream of bliss by the sound of Hartfield’s front door. “Ah, Miss Woodhouse has returned already?” she whispered mournfully.

Lord Slade released her, moving back so that he only held her hands once more. “You will not allow her to dissuade you from giving the answer in your heart, will you?”

“Of course not,” Amanda assured him, though her heart trembled at the idea of giving any answer at all.

“Then quickly, before she can come in, let me hear your—”

Before Lord Slade could finish what he was saying, heavier footsteps than expected brought the form not of Emma Woodhouse, but of Mr. Knightley into the parlour. “What—where is Emma?” he asked, his voice more surprised and disappointed than suspicious.

“I must be going,” Lord Slade said, releasing Amanda’s hands and rising to his feet. “I hope that you will have an answer to my question when next we meet, Miss Smith.” With one last kiss of her hand, Lord Slade left again with barely a nod for Mr. Knightley.

“What is going on here?” Mr. Knightley asked, approaching Amanda. “What question did he put to you, Miss Smith?”

“It was…merely a private matter…” Amanda said, uncomfortable about looking him in the face.

Mr. Knightley sighed, and drew up a chair, sitting down close in front of her. “Miss Smith, as you are a close friend of Emma’s, I have naturally come to think of you as a friend of my own as well. And as your friend, I am sure I can be quite helpful to you in deciding what your answer to Lord Slade should be.”

Amanda looked up at his face and saw genuine concern in his eyes. “I…I was going to ask Miss Woodhouse’s advice, actually…” She laughed uncomfortably. “I am quite sure I should not spread Lord Slade’s private business to more than one person.”

“That is very proper of you,” Mr. Knightley agreed, “but you would do better to tell it to me than to Emma. She can sometimes speak without thinking when she becomes emotionally engaged. And she has not the same understanding of the world that I have.”

Amanda hesitated, nibbling on her lip. “I…I suppose there is no harm in it,” she eventually admitted, with a sorry sigh. She was quite sure she already knew what Mr. Knightley was likely to say, unfortunately. “There is nothing improper about it, after all.” Though it could hardly be called fully proper, either, she reflected, even as she explained about Lord Slade’s proposal of marriage.

Mr. Knightley frowned at her for some time after she finished speaking. “That is…highly surprising,” he eventually said. “For a man of Lord Slade’s position to set aside rank so dramatically is entirely unusual.” After a further, thoughtful pause, he shook his head. “You should discuss this with Emma, as you planned. But no matter what she advises you to do, do not give him an answer until I have had a chance to speak to you again on the matter.”

“Why not?” Amanda felt a fear gnawing inside her. “Are there laws against a woman such as myself accepting the proposal of a baron? Would you have to report me if I accepted him?”

Mr. Knightley laughed so loudly that it roused Mr. Woodhouse. “Report you to whom?” he asked. “Any case here would come before me as magistrate. No, Miss Smith, I am not worried about you falling afoul of the law. I have other concerns, but as they may turn out to be nothing, I do not wish to worry you with them.”

No objections from Amanda were sufficient to make him explain any further, and eventually she relented and gave him her word that she would not make an answer to Lord Slade without receiving word from Mr. Knightley. And then he left again, without even waiting for Emma to get back. It struck Amanda that he was actually more agitated by the proposal than she was, but his was an unsettled agitation entirely unlike her own elation.

*******

Curt was not sure how he wanted to spend the afternoon, though he was fairly sure he ought to return to Richmond early enough to dine with his aunt and uncle. His aunt was getting more and more irritable—and suspicious—in the face of his continual trips to Highbury, and no amount of praise for the village could dissuade her from assuming he was up to no good with some one or other there.

While he made up his mind, he was sitting in the parlour at Randalls and chatting pleasantly—if pointlessly—with the woman whose low birth meant his uncle and aunt found her a much more fitting companion for Curt’s father than Curt’s mother had been. An ironic situation, considering that she was in every way superior to his aunt.

To Curt’s surprise, their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Knightley—looking even more serious than usual, an impressive feat—who gave them both an apologetic smile before saying “Mrs. Weston, if it is not too much of an imposition, could I request that you let us speak in private?”

“Of course,” she replied, with a warm smile as she rose to leave. She probably assumed it was about Miss Woodhouse: a challenge from her protector to her seeming-suitor. Given the grim look on his face, she might not have been wrong, and yet Curt had the impression that she  _ was _ wrong. Mr. Knightley’s current expression appeared quite different and rather more concerned than the one he usually displayed when he seemed to think Curt was being too free with Miss Woodhouse.

“Is any thing the matter?” Curt asked, after Mrs. Weston had closed the door behind her.

“I will be direct with you. Do you believe, as the one who knows him best, that Lord Slade is the sort of man who will do absolutely any thing to obtain that which he desires, no matter its morality or legality?”

Curt rose to his feet, all sorts of new terrors spreading through him. “Brian is the very picture of that sort of man. But what happened? Why would you ask such a question?”

The explanation that followed—that Brian had proposed to marry Miss Smith—was precisely what Curt had been fearing for weeks now. “Would you say that Lord Slade is the sort of cad who would hold a false wedding ceremony in order to vanquish a young lady’s chastity?” Mr. Knightley asked.

Curt laughed, and shook his head. “No, he would never do that. He would see that as his seductive powers having failed him. If he wanted to conquer her virtue, he would do so without having to stoop to deception; seduction is a game for him, and deception would mean that he had already lost. But I cannot—he cannot truly want to marry her. She must have manipulated him into the proposal in some manner. Some beguiling look that forces him to do her bidding.” Or perhaps Brian had run out of laudanum again and Miss Smith had proved herself to be a new source of opium…

Mr. Knightley chuckled. “I can assure you that Miss Smith has no such trickery in her character. She is a most honest, open and simple young woman. And she seemed quite astonished by the proposal.”

“Of course she wanted to seem that way—no deceitful temptress would ever allow herself to seem any other way. Brian cannot be allowed to fall into the clutches of such a woman!” Pacing in his agitation, Curt began more thinking aloud than truly speaking, trying to guess what witchcraft Miss Smith had used and how to save Brian from being trapped into a marriage with such a vile creature.

Surprisingly, Mr. Knightley laughed. A real, full laugh. “I believe I have come to understand you now,” he announced. “For you, friendship has such an intensity that it appears similar to romantic affection in other men, and that is why you have seemed to be attached to both Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax.”

Curt winced. As he had already surmised, much of Mr. Knightley’s position of respect within Highbury indeed sprang from the man’s actual merits of intellect and observation as well as his rigid character. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, Curt weighed the possibilities suddenly opening up before him. It might or might not help Brian escape Miss Smith, but it would almost certainly help Curt with the ever increasing complexity of his own situation.

While Curt was thinking, Mr. Knightley resumed talking, going into greater detail about the merits he believed Miss Smith’s character to possess, and his certainty that she was innocent of any guile regarding her relations with Brian. Curt could not accept a word of that, of course, but he could see this was an opportunity—possibly his only opportunity—to enter Mr. Knightley’s good graces and obtain a chance of his assistance in the numerous and difficult matters ahead.

“You are quite right about one thing,” Curt told him, when Mr. Knightley finally came to a lengthy pause, “my friendships do often give others the impression that they are romances. For Brian and Miss Woodhouse, it is indeed exactly that simple. Miss Fairfax is a more complicated and delicate matter, and I should not tell you of it in the slightest, except that I know you are the most honourable and upright gentleman in Highbury—if not in all of Surrey—and that Miss Fairfax has the highest possible opinion of you.”

“I do not desire your flattery.”

“It is not flattery, I assure you,” Curt said, with a laugh that appeared to make the other man more annoyed rather than less. “But you must understand that what I have to tell you is of the most secret nature, and that I should not burden you with the knowledge if I did not think it necessary for Miss Fairfax’s sake.”

Mr. Knightley frowned. “I believe I can guess what you have to say, and I do not believe this is the appropriate time for such a conversation.”

“Ah, you can probably guess part of it, but the smaller part, I assure you. There is no appropriate time, but…you will understand when I explain.” Curt took a few paces across the room to gather his nerves together. Speaking of such a subject with someone like Mr. Knightley was very different than sharing it with Brian or Arthur… “My tale must begin in October last. I was in Weymouth, on my way to call on my friend Col. Campbell. In passing, I noticed the door of a nearby house stood open. I knew it to be unoccupied, as the fine family that had been staying there had recently returned to town. I should have ignored it, if I had not heard noises from within, which I took at first to be an injured animal, someone’s dog perhaps. But as I mounted the stairs, I realised it was the sound of a woman weeping. It would be indelicate to go into detail regarding the state in which I found Miss Fairfax that day, but I can assure you that she had suffered the most vile and barbaric attack.” Curt hesitated, trying to read the expression on Mr. Knightley’s face. He seemed filled with indignation, but if Curt was understanding him correctly, the indignation was on Miss Fairfax’s behalf, not against Curt. “She has never recovered enough to be willing to name her attacker to me, but I know he was of the society kept by Col. Campbell in Weymouth, because she presented only fear at parties and other gatherings in Weymouth after that time, unless I should be by her side to protect her. I had always found her a dear creature, of course, but in the weeks following the incident, as I began to spend more time with her, she became very precious to me, a most important friend. But with Miss Campbell having become Mrs. Dixon, talk started in the Campbell household of Miss Fairfax needing to move on and enter into a career as a governess as had always been the plan for her. I tell you, you have not seen fear unless you could see the looks on her face whenever she heard those words! If she was to become a governess, living in some strange man’s house and utterly helpless before his whims…the fear of it alone could mean death for a lady of such frail constitution as Miss Fairfax!”

“It is certainly a situation to be avoided,” Mr. Knightley agreed.

“I made up my mind to protect her in the best and most permanent manner I could,” Curt explained, “by taking her as my wife. I do not love her as we are told a man should love his wife, but I value her with a constancy that will not fade, and after what she went through, Miss Fairfax says she does not want to be loved in the traditional way, so she agreed to my proposal. We agreed to keep it a secret until the permission of my family could be obtained. I attempted to lure them into conversation about the prospect of my marrying a young woman of respectable birth who had no particular connections and no fortune…” Curt sighed, shaking his head. “Of course they would never allow it. I am glad to say, now that I have gotten to know him so well, that I know my father will gladly accept it, because the only objection he would ever make to Miss Jane Fairfax is that she is not Miss Emma Woodhouse. But I do not know how to convince my uncle and aunt to accept her, and I cannot part ways with them and rely upon my father’s fortune to sustain me or I would be cutting off all prospects for the brother or sister I shall soon have.” It would have been much easier if Mrs. Weston had been too old to bear children, and yet how could he begrudge the existence of a child who was already giving such joy to his father and step-mother, even before having been born?

Mr. Knightley sighed deeply. “Your goal was an admirable one—noble even—but your methods were thoughtless, selfish and childish. Furthermore, in your desire to protect Miss Fairfax, you have used Miss Woodhouse most abominably.”

The man certainly did not mince his words! “I did attempt to explain the truth of the situation to Miss Woodhouse—without any indelicacies that would have exposed what Miss Fairfax had suffered, of course—before I left Highbury in March,” Curt said, trying to defend himself the only way he could, “and while my father interrupted me before I was able to mention Miss Fairfax, all that was said between us led me to the very firm certainty that Miss Woodhouse has no romantic attachments to me.”

“I most sincerely hope that is so!” Mr. Knightley exclaimed with such a surprising passion that Curt wondered if perhaps he had more interest in Miss Woodhouse than as merely her friend and brother-in-law. “However, for propriety’s sake, I believe you must inform both Miss Woodhouse and your father of the truth of this situation at once.”

“My father, yes, of course, but surely Miss Woodhouse does not need to—”

“If you wish any assistance from me in this matter, you will tell Miss Woodhouse the complete truth.” Mr. Knightley’s tone brooked no argument. “And you will assist me in every way necessary to protect Miss Smith from any predations Lord Slade may have in mind with his suspect proposal.”

Curt was beginning to wonder if this had been a mistake, but as it was too late now, there was nothing for it but to agree to Mr. Knightley’s terms. “However, in good conscience I cannot tell another soul without Miss Fairfax’s permission,” he added. “The entire situation reflects far more poorly on her, after all, than it does on me.” Despite that she was without question the victim in the situation, no matter what Brian thought. “I only dared to tell you of it because I know how close you are to her and her family; Miss Bates never tires of speaking of your great generosity and all the kindnesses you repeatedly show them.”

“Of course Miss Fairfax should be consulted for her consent in the matter,” Mr. Knightley agreed. “I wish to speak to William Cox about the legal ramifications of Lord Slade’s actions, so perhaps we may agree that you will speak to Miss Fairfax and then your father to-day, and to Miss Woodhouse to-morrow morning, when I might join you for the conversation.”

“Yes, that will suit me. But what do you mean by legal ramifications? I assure you, Brian is not the sort for that particular type of chicanery.” Anything that depended on a court of law would automatically bore Brian, and he never did any thing unless it could engage his excitement, or at least his interest.  


“There might be laws against a baron taking an untitled bride,” Mr. Knightley said, “laws of which even Lord Slade is unaware. There are still laws on the books that have gone unchallenged since the twelfth century, simply because no one recalls they exist. As I allowed Miss Smith to become lodged at Hartfield, I feel a certain amount of responsibility towards protecting her interests, and I will not fail in that responsibility for any reason.”

“Allowed…?” Curt laughed. “To hear you talk, one would think Hartfield was  _ your  _ house, not that of the Woodhouses!”

A brief look of flustered embarrassment flashed across Mr. Knightley’s face. Then he said “What rubbish!” and left without another word.

So that was it, was it? The man had hated Curt from the start not because he thought Curt a flippant fop, but because he feared Curt would take away his precious Miss Woodhouse? Not information that currently seemed terribly useful, but that might change in the future.

For the moment, however, Curt had to make the trip into the village to talk to Miss Fairfax, then come back to explain things to his father. Neither of them promised to be a pleasant conversation, but Miss Fairfax would surely be relieved to see an end to at least some of the deception.


	12. Chapter 12

Lord Slade called earlier than his usual hour on the day following the proposal, and acted most annoyed that Emma would not leave them alone. He seemed to expect Amanda to be able to dismiss her somehow, despite that she had never had that power before. Of course, he also seemed unaware that Amanda had shared the details of his prior visit with Emma. It hurt knowing she had betrayed his trust—twice over!—in such a manner, but at least Emma had not been alarmed by it as Mr. Knightley had been. In fact, Emma had become almost as excited and overjoyed as Amanda had, as most of her earlier objections to Lord Slade had faded away as she spent more time with him and began to understand his true character.

The longer Lord Slade sat with them in the parlour at Hartfield, the more it needled Amanda that she could not simply accept his proposal as she wished most fervently to do. But after giving her word to wait, how could she break that word? Amanda was just beginning to wonder if she should admit to having made that foolish promise to Mr. Knightley when she heard the door being opened to admit another guest. Hopeful that it was Mr. Knightley come to release her from her promise, Amanda turned her eyes towards the door to the parlour, only to soon be shocked to see the unlikely duo of Mr. Curt Wild and Miss Jane Fairfax entering.

Lord Slade immediately rose from his seat. “Then I shall call upon you to-morrow, Miss Smith,” he said stiffly. “I have no desire to be in  _ present company _ .” He left in a great hurry without waiting for Amanda to say even one word of farewell.

“Wait, Brian!” Mr. Curt Wild ran out after Lord Slade, leaving an extremely uncomfortable Miss Fairfax standing just inside the parlour.

“Please, do come in and sit down,” Emma said, smiling warmly at Miss Fairfax. “It is quite a surprise to see you here, and so early. I hope every thing is still well at home with your aunt and your grandmother?”

Miss Fairfax smiled as she sat down on an empty settee, a hesitant, uncomfortable smile that reminded Amanda of her own smiles whenever she was forced by social duty to submit to something she detested. “They are both quite well, thank you, Miss Woodhouse.”

They all three sat there in an awkward silence until Emma spoke again, with the easy grace she was so used to displaying as hostess. “And what brought you here to-day? A social call, or do you have some business with me?”

“I suppose you would say that we have come on business of a fashion,” Miss Fairfax answered slowly.

“We?” Amanda repeated, unable to imagine any manner in which Miss Fairfax and Mr. Curt Wild could possibly share any business, outside perhaps of some musical business like the absurd club that Mrs. Elton had wanted to form with Emma in the first days of her time in Highbury, before her husband had poisoned her against Emma as well as Amanda.

“Miss Woodhouse, may I speak freely, and in confidence?” Miss Fairfax asked, her voice tight and her eyes misty.

“Of course you may,” Emma assured her, moving to the chair nearest to the settee. “If there is anything any one has done to upset you—even some one in this house—even if it should be me—you must never hesitate to tell me. I shall do any thing in my power to amend the situation.”

Miss Fairfax sighed sadly. “There is nothing you—or any one—can do to amend the majority of what upsets me,” she admitted. “It…I…every one in Highbury knows what my situation was with the Campbells, so I am sure I need not explain it, but it pains me to say that I do not think all of Col. Campbell’s acquaintances in society knew the situation so exactly. Though there were those who treated me as more or less an equal, many saw me as little more than a servant attending to Miss Campbell. As I knew I had few hopes of ending up as in any life but as a governess in some private residence, I saw little purpose in attempting to correct that, so perhaps I do bear some of the blame for what happened.” Her lower lip trembled slightly, and she stared down at her hands.

“It should not have been your responsibility to correct them,” Emma assured her. “Col. Campbell should have corrected them as was his duty as your guardian.”

Miss Fairfax nodded weakly, and tried to smile, though it barely registered as more than a slight movement of the corners of her mouth. “When Miss Campbell married Mr. Dixon, some of those members of the Weymouth society who viewed me as more a servant than a friend to her decided that I had become a  _ superfluous _ servant, one certain to leave Col. Campbell’s house at any instant.” Her whole body was trembling now, as though she was desperately cold, despite the warm June day. “Their treatment of me—when the Campbells were out of hearing—changed to such merciless abuse that I took to the policy of avoiding them whenever I could.”

“A sensible policy,” Emma commented. “I am sure I would have done the same.” Amanda found that highly doubtful; Emma would have fought back with such cruel wit that her persecutors would have fled in fear of her.

“It turned out to be the wrong one,” Miss Fairfax said, shaking her head sadly. “One afternoon as I was walking along the lane into town, I saw one of them headed towards me. To avoid him, I went to the door of a nearby house. The family that had been renting it had daughters who had been particular friends of Mrs. Dixon’s and my own. I had not been aware that they had already returned to London, but as the door was left unlocked, I went inside regardless. It had not occurred to me that he might follow me in, or that no one would be able to hear me shout from within the house.”

Amanda felt a cold dread grip her at the thought of what might have happened—did happen!—to Miss Fairfax in that empty house, and she suddenly wished she had excused herself to allow the other two to speak in private. Emma looked similarly aghast, her face paling at the thought. She seemed about to speak when Miss Fairfax continued.

“Until that day, I did not understand that such things happened among polite society,” Miss Fairfax said, her voice quiet and shaken. “I had heard Col. Campbell mention it as one of the horrors of war, an atrocity committed by soldiers overrunning an enemy town and…forcing themselves…on innocent women there, but I did not know…” She stopped, biting her lip as tears began spilling out of her eyes. “I should have realised the danger I was in and turned back, making the longer walk to the home where the Campbells and their servants could have sheltered me, instead of hiding in that nearer house. Then he would not have…”

“Oh, no, you cannot think that!” Emma moved from her chair to sit beside Miss Fairfax on the settee. “How could an innocent ever expect such violence? No, the blame is entirely his!” Emma exclaimed passionately, taking hold of one of Miss Fairfax’s hands in a warm, comforting gesture.

Miss Fairfax nodded weakly. “I…I do not know how long I remained in that empty building after that. Had I access to it without having to pass among other people, I might have thrown myself into the sea to obliterate myself and the shame together.” Her tears were coming faster now, and Emma released her hand in order to put an arm around her shoulders. “I was still there when Curt Wild found me. If he had not come, I do not think I should have survived, and even if I had, I doubt if I could have been ever again in the company of any man without being consumed by fear.” She wiped fruitlessly at her tears with a handkerchief. “He helped me return to the Campbells’ house without being seen in such a disgraceful state, and promised he would do every thing he could to help me further. At first, I thought I should need nothing in that regard, except perhaps as a guardian to stand between myself and my attacker if he should dare come near me at any future gathering.”

A choking sound from within her throat stopped Miss Fairfax from speaking for several agonizingly long moments. “Over the next few weeks, I…I believe that monster told others like himself what he had done—for with every gathering at the Campbells’, or any party to which they brought me along, I felt more and more eyes upon me—the eyes of foxes watching an injured hen!” Her body was shaking again, and her hands clenched into fists in her lap. “I do not wish to imagine the brutal, bitter end that was waiting for me, though it has appeared before my eyes countless times in my nightmares since.”

“But Curt Wild helped you escape them?” Emma asked, her voice almost breathless.

Miss Fairfax nodded. “He saw how much my situation had deteriorated, and…we discussed many methods of escape, but the only one that seemed truly effective would be if I should marry him. Then no man would dare lay a hand upon me, even men such as those.” She took a deep, ragged breath, and let it out again almost too quickly. “But I have no fortune and no family who would meet with the approval of his uncle and aunt, so though we came to an arrangement between us, we had to keep it in deadly secret lest they should find out before he can determine a way to convince them to approve of the marriage.” Miss Fairfax bit her lip as she turned her head to look at Emma. “I had no idea that—I should never have agreed to the secret if I had known how close you and he were to become! I—”

“Do not fret over that,” Emma insisted, smiling at her despite that she, too, was now crying. “I am dearly fond of him, it is true, but I have never entertained any romantic affection for him, nor do I have any interest in marriage to him or any one else.” Emma let go of Miss Fairfax’s shoulders, and gently turned the other girl to be facing her. “I have often reprimanded myself for failing in my natural duty to be a friend to you, and now I want more than ever to make up for it. I would wish to be like a sister to you from this day forth, if you could accept such affection from one as flawed and selfish as I.”

Miss Fairfax nodded, and the two embraced in a most sisterly fashion. Amanda found that she, too, was weeping a bit, and she took the opportunity to wipe her tears. When the conversation resumed, it was only slightly lighter: who had Miss Fairfax taken into her confidence before to-day (no one), what had she told the Campbells about the attack (nothing), what methods had they tried to persuade the Wilds to accept her (none so far). Eventually, Miss Fairfax let out a weighty sigh, and said “In truth, Miss Woodhouse, at present I am far more concerned about Mrs. Elton than I am about the Wilds.”

“Mrs. Elton?” Emma repeated. “What has she to—”

The parlour doors were opened just then (though Amanda had been far too wrapped up in the conversation to hear the doors of the house opening), admitting not only the returning Curt Wild, but also Mr. Knightley. The latter looked quite alarmed by everything he saw within the parlour, and even more alarmed when Emma ignored him, rushing over instead to clasp the younger man’s hand. “Miss Fairfax has told me everything,” she said. “It was so noble of you to protect her like that. You should be commended for all you have done for her sake.”

He seemed genuinely unsure how to react to Emma’s enthusiastic kindness, but resumed something of his normal attitude after a glance at Miss Fairfax, and made one of his typical self-effacing comments that always struck Amanda’s ear as false, and particularly so in this case.

“Perhaps I was not needed to help the discussion after all,” Mr. Knightley commented, his expression quite uncertain.

“Did you already know about this?” Emma asked, her voice atremble.

“I told him yesterday in a moment of…great confusion and uncertainty,” Mr. Curt Wild admitted. “It was Mr. Knightley who insisted that you must be told at once, in order that I could properly apologise for any false impressions my behaviour towards you might have generated.”

Emma laughed warmly. “It  _ could _ have been the most awful of heartbreaks, but I am glad to say that my heart was not thus swayed by your charms.”

“If I were not spoken for, that might insult me,” he replied, with a look on his face that rather said he was insulted regardless of his engagement to Miss Fairfax.

Emma ignored him, and returned to her original seat by Amanda, leaving the other side of the settee for Mr. Curt Wild, and the chair for Mr. Knightley. “Now, Miss Fairfax, what were you saying about Mrs. Elton?” Emma asked.

“As you are aware, she has been most keen on finding me work as a governess in a family she will approve of,” Miss Fairfax said, her voice trembling. “To go to such a stranger’s house…I…” Her body began shaking, too, and her fiancé put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“You can just tell her no,” he said.

“You have not spent much time around Mrs. Elton if you think she would accept a simple negative answer,” Mr. Knightley said in a most disapproving manner.

“I have done my best to avoid spending any time around her at all,” Mr. Curt Wild replied, with a laugh. “Dreadful woman.”

“There is no one here who will argue with that,” Emma said, “but Mr. Knightley is quite right that she will never accept refusal, particularly since she believes she is acting in Miss Fairfax’s best interests.”

“Have you tried explaining to her that your health is too poorly of late to think of taking a position so soon?” Amanda asked.

“That was the first thing I attempted,” Miss Fairfax said sadly. “She dismissed my health entirely.”

“She will not care about the health of a governess until she has children of her own to think of,” Mr. Knightley said, shaking his head, “and even then she will only care about the governess’s health in that an ailing governess might make her children ill.”

While everyone was nodding in agreement with him, Emma suddenly let out a cry of triumph. “Why, that is it!” she exclaimed. “We simply have to provide you with another position first, one that she cannot dismiss as being unworthy of you.”

“But she could never go off to some strange man’s house who—” Mr. Curt Wild started to object.

“No strange men are required,” Emma insisted, “as Miss Fairfax has known Mr. John Knightley since childhood, and he would be no more likely to press such harm upon her as our own Mr. Knightley would, particularly not with my sister Isabella there to look after her.”

Mr. Knightley laughed. “That is a capital idea, Emma,” he agreed. “I know John will be glad to offer you the illusion of a position for as long as it is needed until the Wilds will see reason,” he assured Miss Fairfax.

“Will Mrs. Elton accept the London Knightleys as a ‘worthy’ family?” Miss Fairfax asked, with a faint smile of hope on her face.

“Unless she wants to risk offending me, she had certainly better,” Mr. Knightley replied. “I can send word off to my brother right away, if you would like.”

“It might be better if I write to Isabella,” Emma said, then looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps we should both write. In case one is more easily swayed than the other.”

“I know John will have no objections,” Mr. Knightley said, “but hearing from both of us might more effectively impress the urgency of the situation upon them.” He turned to look at Miss Fairfax. “If Mrs. Elton should mention the subject again before we hear back from my brother, you must add one more defensive falsehood to your situation and tell her that you and my brother were discussing the idea when he was last in town. She saw how long you spent conversing together at the dinner-party, so she will be unlikely to realise it is a falsehood. You must simply impress upon her that you had not wished to mention it until it was firmly arranged, as John needed to confer with Isabella before officially offering you the position. Above all else, you must make sure that Mrs. Elton cannot think she and her acquaintances have any prior claim to your services as governess.”

Miss Fairfax nodded with a warm smile. “I cannot thank you—or your brother—enough for the offer.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Fairfax. We owe your family all the kindnesses in the world.”

*******

Having heard there had been some disturbance outside of Hartfield that morning, Arthur took the first opportunity he could find to head to Randalls and see how Curt was doing. He could not be sure that the disturbance had involved Curt, but with his tendency to call on Miss Woodhouse and Lord Slade’s unfailing habit of calling on Miss Smith, it seemed highly improbable that the disturbance was anything other than the two of them having encountered each other. Of course, he also could not be sure if Curt was still willing to speak to him—he had received no reply to his letter about Lord Slade seeing him leave Randalls—but if Curt was in pain, how could Arthur not go to him?  


The maid he spoke to at Randalls informed Arthur that Curt had left the house a short time earlier, headed on foot towards the village. But if he had left when she said, Arthur should surely have met him on the road. Perhaps he was still on the grounds? Arthur decided to check their trysting place in the hedge row, the only place he could think of to look.

And sure enough, Arthur found him there, seated directly on the ground, his knees raised and his head resting on them. “You will ruin your trousers, sitting like that,” Arthur told him.

Curt jolted suddenly, and looked up at him with a sheepish laugh. “I don’t care about my trousers.”

Arthur took a seat beside him, though he dreaded to think what Mrs. Perry would say if dirt stains were reported on the seat of his trousers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Curt sighed. “I probably should, but…I doubt if I can.” He sighed again, and slipped his arm around Arthur’s waist, pulling him closer. “It is truly over,” he moaned. “I thought…until to-day, I thought we could restore our affair. I thought he would tire of her and come back to me.”

Unsure what to say, Arthur could only bite his lip. Was he so insufficient as a romantic companion that Curt could still only think of Lord Slade? Of course he had to be, and yet how could that knowledge not sting his heart brutally?

“But he will not—or not until it is far too late,” Curt went on, heedless of Arthur’s anguish. “Brian actually plans to marry her.”

“Miss Smith? But she is…a baron cannot marry someone like her, can he?”

“He has already proposed, so he certainly thinks he can.” Curt sighed again. “In truth, there is no one who could stop him. Except perhaps the king or the prince regent, and why would either of them even care?” A bitter laugh. “You know, once upon a time, I thought…I thought the world was going to change. That we were going to change it.”

“Change it how?”

“I suppose you have never read  _ Childe Maxwell _ ?”

Arthur shook his head.

“No, I did not think so.” Curt chuckled. “In the second canto, he introduced a new character, a close friend and companion for Maxwell, a handsome young lad. The reading public believes he is more symbolic than a true character, as necessary a component of the final steps of Maxwell’s journey as Pallas was for Aeneas’, but Brian swore he was me. And that in the final canto, Maxwell was to realise it was not the love of a lady he needed to purify his soul and let him attain the perfection he strove for, but the love of this perfect friend who had accompanied him all this way, through so many hardships…” Curt shook his head. “That was supposedly going to make all the world see how noble and righteous we were, and how wrong they were to call our love unnatural. And that then we would be able to love each other openly instead of in the shadows. It was insane to believe something like that could ever happen, but…”

“I wish it could.”

“Maybe in two hundred years’ time, but in two years’ time? Of course it was a fantasy. A dream from which I had to awake someday.” Curt leaned his head back to look at the small bit of blue sky visible between the walls of the hedge. “I just did not want to wake so soon.” He released Arthur’s waist and began to stroke his hair. “I apologise. I did not mean to burden you with any of this.”

“It’s all right,” Arthur lied.

“No, it is not. I should not be sulking in here that I have lost Brian. I should be glad to have found you. And I  _ am _ glad to have found you,” Curt assured him, pulling him close again. “But losing Brian…” Yet another sigh. “Maybe I just need time to grieve before I can truly move onwards.”

Arthur nodded, biting his tongue against the further reproofs that were occurring to him. His discomfort must have shown on his face, as Curt insisted on knowing what he was thinking. “When did he expect the final canto to be published?” Arthur asked.

“It may be some years yet,” Curt answered. “Is there some significance to its date?”

“Ah…well…would you not have already married Miss Fairfax by then?” Arthur said, hoping his voice did not sound as weak as it felt. “Surely if you already had a wife, your love would still have needed to be in secret.”

Curt stared at him with a blank expression for some minutes. “Yes…I suppose so…” he finally admitted, before letting out a miserable sigh. “Perhaps more of this quarrel is my own doing than I had wanted to believe possible…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the bitter sadness of the new character in the second canto of "Childe Maxwell"! In the first draft, he was a wild man met by Maxwell and brought into civilized society, and considered by the readers as the Enkidu to Maxwell's Gilgamesh. What could be more perfect than that for the way to insert an analog of Curt into an epic poem?
> 
> Only then I looked it up, and the cuneiform tablets with the Epic of Gilgamesh on them weren't even discovered until the 1850s, and not translated for decades after that. :( And then to make matters worse, I had to use Pallas and Aeneas instead of Patroclos and Achilles because at the time the Aeneid was better known than the Iliad. :< Sometimes attempting to be chronologically accurate really sucks.


	13. Chapter 13

It had been nearly six days since the proposal, and Amanda was deeply uncomfortable about the fact that she had still not been permitted to give her answer. More disconcerting, however, was the fact that it had been several days since Lord Slade made any attempt to press her for an answer. Had he thought the better of his rash decision and become glad that she seemed unwilling to answer? Would he refuse to accept her answer if she ever succeeded in giving it?

She feared the worst when someone arrived at Hartfield a good quarter of an hour prior to Lord Slade’s usual arrival time. If he had arrived early, surely that could only mean that he had paid to-day's call only to say that she had waited too long and the offer was withdrawn. What was she to do if that was the case? Now that she had fallen so desperately in love, could she even survive without it? Without  _ him _ ?

But it was Mr. Knightley who entered the parlour, not Lord Slade. He smiled at them pleasantly. “I am glad to see that I have beaten him here this morning,” he said, taking a seat opposite Amanda.

Amanda tried to form up a question—to express the wish—the demand—that he release her from her promise and allow her to marry the man she loved. But her voice did not cooperate, and she could only sit there, staring at him, her eyes already stinging in anticipation of the tears they would surely soon be producing.

“I do apologise that this has taken so long,” Mr. Knightley continued, “but I assure you that it was entirely for your own sake. Without being certain that there were no laws that might forbid such an union, I could not have stood by and allowed you to take such a risk. A marriage annulled for such reasons could be disastrous even to the most wealthy and well-born of ladies. For you, it would have been insurmountable.”

“Annulled?” Amanda repeated. “What reasons? What are you talking about?”

Mr. Knightley uncomfortably explained his fears that her low birth might have made any marriage between herself and Lord Slade null and void by English law. “William Cox found he did not have sufficient texts on hand and had to travel to London to consult with my brother and even more experienced men of law there. And even they had to spend days in consulting dense and ponderous old tomes of laws.” He smiled pleasantly. “However, they found no laws that could forbid the marriage, none that had not since been stricken from the books. I still find the entire affair to be suspicious, but I can find no evidence that Lord Slade is not in earnest.”

“Then I am finally free to answer him?”

“And I am sure he is most anxious to have his answer,” Mr. Knightley said, nodding. “I will apologise to him for the delay if need be.”

Amanda sighed. “I do not know if that would be better or worse,” she admitted.

“I have no doubt that he understands how overwhelming a decision it is for you,” Emma said, patting Amanda’s hand. “He still comes every day, does he not? If he was feeling put out by your delay, or having second thoughts, he would not still act the part of the eager lover.”

Amanda expressed her agreement and tried to believe it, but her heart was still atremble with fear that he was no longer a lover of any kind. She found she could not participate as Emma and Mr. Knightley engaged in light, cheerful chatter, mostly about the plans for a party to-morrow to pick strawberries on the grounds at Donwell Abbey. How was she supposed to feel any joy over something so trivial when her entire future was hanging by such a meagre thread?

Such a great relief washed over her when Lord Slade arrived—precisely on time, coming in while the clock was still striking the hour—and looked only mildly surprised to see Mr. Knightley already sitting in the parlour with Amanda and Emma. He had done no more than greeted them than Mr. Knightley got to his feet and turned to offer a hand towards Emma. “Would you care to take a turn through the gardens with me?” he asked.

“I should be most pleased, Mr. Knightley,” Emma replied, with a wide, delighted smile, and a fond glance at Amanda as they left.

Lord Slade chuckled as he took a seat near Amanda. “Then Mr. Knightley has finally given his consent, has he?” he asked.

An astonished “What?” was the only response Amanda could vocalise. Surely Lord Slade hadn’t known all along?

He laughed again, more gently than before. “It did not take me long to realise what had happened. It was careless of me to say in front of that man that I was expecting an answer from you. With such a man as Mr. Knightley, of course he would never have let you alone until you had explained what I wanted, and as he seems to view himself as a father figure for all of Highbury, naturally he expected to have some role to play in your decision.”

Amanda bit her lip. “You are not cross with me…? I—I was so terrified you would withdraw the question if you found out I had told him, and I have been so,  _ so _ worried…!”

Lord Slade moved from his chair to take a seat beside her on the sofa. “I am more annoyed with myself than anyone else,” he assured her, taking hold of her hands in his. “I should have known not to say anything so leading in front of him.” Gently, he lifted Amanda’s hands to his lips and kissed them. “And I am still most desperate to learn if you could ever consent to be my wife.”

A relieved laugh came out of Amanda’s mouth unbidden, even before she could form any words. “Nothing could make me happier,” she assured him, leaning her head in closer to his. “I have dreamt of nothing but how delightful it would be to be able to call you my own.”

Almost before Amanda knew what was happening, he had drawn her in closer and kissed her passionately. Kissing was, it turned out, much more complex—and wonderful—than she had previously imagined. And she could not wait to become ever more experienced at it.

“My dearest Miss Sm—no, my own Amanda,” he said, holding her tightly. “It is my shame as a poet to find my words failing me as I try to express my happiness.”

“If it is difficult for you, imagine how hard it is for me,” Amanda replied, tears of joy beginning to spill from her eyes, “trying to tell you happy you have made someone as unworthy as I am!”

He kissed her again and again, so many times that Amanda lost all thought of anything but his arms and his lips. And yet he eventually stopped, releasing her and using his handkerchief to wipe away the dried tear trails from her cheeks. “We must have you looking respectable when they return from the garden,” he commented, with a chuckle.

“I suppose so,” Amanda sighed sadly. “I would rather be free of the judgments of the outside world, but that will never happen, will it?”

“No, they will always continue to judge you, but once we are married it will no longer  _ matter _ what they think.” He glanced over at the door through which Emma and Mr. Knightley had left. “If you will forgive my curiosity, I have to wonder just what took him so long to make up his mind. Surely he is not the one responsible for that absurd letter to my steward?”

“He did not say anything about a letter to me, Lor—Brian,” Amanda said, a bit of a giggle escaping along with his name. It seemed such a forbidden honour to address him by his Christian name! And yet such a joyful feeling it had crossing her lips! “What did the letter say?”

Brian laughed. “Some benighted individual wrote to inform my estate that an ‘imposter’ was running about Highbury and committing the most unlordly acts. Naturally, my steward used the letter to reproach me; the usual lecture about maintaining the family dignity, to think of what my father or grandfather might have said about my conduct, &c.” He shook his head. “I should not put up with such treatment from a mere steward, but he is quite indispensible. He has been the steward since long before I was born, and none could ever run the estate better. Ah, but I shall have another quite long lecture of a letter coming when he learns who I have chosen to be my bride. And yet, I think after he meets you, he will understand.” He stroked Amanda’s cheek gently with two fingers. “I should notify him at once so he may begin the preparations for the wedding.”

“How soon will it be?” Amanda asked, not quite daring to ask if it could be held in Highbury so her friends could be present to share her joy and her tormentors present to be punished by that same joy.

“Difficult to say,” Brian admitted. “It will take my steward a month at least just to prepare the guest list. I would think sometime in September.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “If you will forgive the impolite question, precisely how old are you? He may insist on having your father’s dispensation, no matter the situation of your birth.”

“I shall be eighteen years of age to-morrow,” Amanda told him, with a bit of an uncomfortable laugh.

“To-morrow! Why did you not tell me sooner? I should have had the arrangements for a party prepared already if I had known!”

Amanda felt her cheeks heat, and found herself avoiding his gaze. “I am not accustomed to people making any fuss over my birth. Not a pleasant one, at any rate.”

“Such a delightful event as your birth must be celebrated with great fanfare,” Brian insisted. “We will hold a grand party in the afternoon, followed by a fine dinner, a ball, and end the evening by watching the stars of Midsummer’s Eve.”

Amanda’s eyes widened as she looked at him in disbelief. “That is far too much for—is it even possible to hold such an event with so little time to plan it?”

“It is for one of my resources,” Brian assured her. “Where planning fails, money will always succeed.” He smiled, and gave her a light kiss. “And we may use the event to announce our engagement to all of Highbury society.”

“I cannot wait to see the looks on their faces!” Would she see more astonishment, disapproval, or happiness?

Brian concurred with a laugh, and began to make wild suggestions as to how they could best outrage those who opposed the marriage. Though Amanda doubted greatly that she could partake even in the most tame of them, she could not resist adding her own suggestions, and they were both talking and laughing with most animated glee by the time Emma and Mr. Knightley returned from the gardens. Emma had a stunned look on her face, and Mr. Knightley farewelled them then departed without a moment’s hesitation.

Brian glanced at the door Mr. Knightley had vanished through, then at Emma’s face, and returned his gaze to Amanda. “Perhaps it is time that I, too, should be leaving?” he suggested.

“As much as I would like for you to stay, I believe you do have much you need to do, if you really intend to hold such a party to-morrow,” Amanda agreed.

After a very fond farewell for them both, Brian left as well. By the time Amanda had returned her attention to Emma, she found that the other’s dazed expression had become one of guarded curiosity. “A party?” Emma repeated. “But what of the strawberries? Or is it to be after that?”

“I am not sure—I forgot to ask that,” Amanda admitted, then explained about the party and why Brian wanted to hold it.

Emma sighed. “Such a gesture will ensure that many in town disapprove of the marriage. But I suppose those individuals would never approve anyway.” She laughed. “Oh, but you will soon become ‘poor Miss Smith’ to my father!”

“I am astonished that I did not start out that way.” Mr. Woodhouse’s disapproval of marriage notwithstanding. “But what happened in the gardens? You looked so unlike yourself when you returned, and Mr. Knightley left so quickly. Surely you did not quarrel?”

“Ah…that.” Emma’s brow furrowed, and she looked uncomfortably at her hands in her lap. “I can assure you that we did not quarrel. On his end, it was just the opposite. He confessed his love for me.”

Amanda could not help smiling. “But is that not a good thing? Why do you seem so glum? I know there is no man in the world you esteem more highly than Mr. Knightley!” Unless Emma was put off by the fact that his younger brother was married to her older sister?

“I have never once thought of him that way,” Emma said, sighing deeply. “He is without question the finest man in Highbury, no matter what the measure of comparison. But I have resolved never to marry. You know that.”

“Well, yes, of course.” Amanda simply had never expected that Emma actually intended to live up to that resolution. “If you refuse him, he will surely marry some other young lady instead. Will you not feel any regret if that happens?”

“I want him to stay just as he is!” Emma exclaimed, with a burst of passion that she seemed to repent immediately, as her cheeks heated. “I want Donwell Abbey to go to young Henry, and that shall not happen if he has children of his own,” she added, with an uncomfortable smile.

“Would the boy want to inherit Donwell Abbey at the expense of his uncle’s happiness?”

“No, of course not.” Emma sighed again. “I know it is a selfish wish.” She laughed bitterly. “Do you know, at the party the Coles threw, Mrs. Weston came to the conclusion that Mr. Knightley was in love with Miss Fairfax. I was quite aghast at the very idea of it.”

“Surely she cannot have been right, and he has chosen you now that she is engaged to Mr. Curt Wild?” Amanda found it hard to believe anyone could ever love Miss Fairfax over Emma; Miss Fairfax was a kind, pretty girl to be sure, but Emma seemed as close to perfection as any lady would ever get.

“He says he became aware of his feelings for me when Mr. Curt Wild first arrived in town and every one assumed that he and I would—” Emma stopped for a moment, looking pensive. “The way he said it, it sounded as if he had actually loved me for many years without realising it.”

Amanda was not in the least bit sure how to react to that. While Emma was a most neat age to be loved and married now, too many years prior and she would have been excessively young, particularly considering that Mr. Knightley must have been about Amanda’s age when Emma was born. The notion struck her as rather disquieting in some ineffable way. “What answer did you give him?” she asked, trying to put the matter out of her mind.

“I told him I was so taken entirely by surprise that I could not possibly answer him yet,” Emma said, with a weak smile. “As he claimed to have been moved to speak by concern that I had withheld my true feelings in order to soothe Miss Fairfax’s anxieties, he said he was willing to wait as long as I needed.”

“That at least is good, is it not?”

Emma nodded. “I shall have to spend many long hours pondering the entire situation.” She put on a smile that struck Amanda as entirely forced. “But we should be talking about  _ you _ right now! How much did you discuss about the wedding before Lord Slade decided to hold a party for your birthday? Do you know when it will be?”

Amanda shook. “There are too many preparations to be made to know when it will be yet, he said. But it will have to be held in his domain, rather than here. I do hope you will be able to attend it.”

“I shall try my utmost to do so,” Emma assured her, clasping her hands. “I will be most bitterly sorry to lose your company, and yet I am so terribly happy for you!”

*******

Brian had done every thing short of setting up an old-fashioned town crier to make sure every single soul in Highbury was aware of the party he was throwing at Colfax. Curt’s initial desire was to use the fact that the entire village would be busy enjoying Brian’s legendary hospitality to snub him in the most thorough manner possible, by finally taking his affair with Arthur to the deepest and most intimate state. Unfortunately, a quick visit to the apothecary’s shop revealed that Arthur was to have duties during the party, as Mr. and Mrs. Perry would both be attending, so Arthur had to watch over their children. While it might be possible that the children would fall asleep eventually (as the party was supposed to go quite late) to give them a few minutes alone, it was most likely that they would not have a moment to themselves, and Curt would be in great difficulties attempting to explain his presence.

It was only when his father was leaving for the party that Curt realised just how little choice he had about what to do. If his own father—the astonishingly permissive man who seemed willing to forgive Curt for almost every thing under the sun—was scolding him outright for daring to refuse to attend the party at Colfax, what would the rest of Highbury say? Not that Curt cared one whit about most of them, but seeing that what could have been a very narrow scrape had actually improved his friendship with Miss Woodhouse—and even gained him a little bit of respect from the uptight Mr. Knightley—how could he throw that all away on empty spite over something that was clearly no longer subject to any possibility of change? It might weaken his position with Miss Bates, too; after all, she was likely to end up living at Enscombe with them after Mrs. Bates passed on, so it was important that she remain as fond of him as she was now. (The thought of her constantly running tongue being used to scold instead of prattle and praise was downright terrifying!)

So, much against his own will, Curt found himself dressing for the party and riding through the village on his faithful mare towards Colfax. The butler appeared surprised to see Curt, but directed him to join the party in the garden none the less. So much for the excuse of being barred entrance to get him out of such a miserable experience!

Most of the people in the garden were delighted to see him, and accepted without qualm or query the flimsy excuse he gave them. Curt spotted Brian and Miss Smith talking to Mr. and Mrs. Cole soon after his arrival, but found that Brian quickly made excuses and turned away from him, disappearing into a shady part of the garden, with Miss Smith hurrying after him. The sight stung.

Trying not to think about it, Curt set off in search of any friendly face that would actually want to speak to him. He found all the most friendly faces together, though he was surprised to see that Miss Woodhouse was keeping a distance from Mr. Knightley in the group, when normally she would be all but glued to his side at such an event. In fact, it was Miss Fairfax who was standing closest to him when Curt arrived; he had already proven himself such a natural guardian for her that Curt could hardly be surprised by that. After providing the same pathetic excuse and greeting everyone, Curt decided to move the conversation sharply away from himself. “Is your father not in attendance, Miss Woodhouse?” he asked, even though he knew perfectly well what she would say in reply.

“Oh, no, Mr. Woodhouse does not like these sorts of gatherings, not at all, does he, Miss Woodhouse?” Miss Bates interjected before Miss Woodhouse could even open her mouth. “Mr. Knightley was so kind as to provide us a carriage—such great generosity!—which took my mother to Hartfield to keep him company. She does so love spending the evening with him, you know. Oh, but it is a pity they must miss this, is it not? The Whitakers keep such a lovely garden, and seeing it decked out all festive like this is a real treat, do you not think so? Yes, yes, a real treat! Why, I was just saying to Mrs. Weston that—”

The unique ability of Miss Bates to hold all sides of a conversation by herself was normally an irritation, but to-day it felt like a great boon, relieving Curt of any need to attempt to make polite conversation while he pondered what he was to do. As bitter as he was that Brian had spurned him over a woman like Miss Smith—but if he was being honest with himself, he could not even claim that. Maybe that was the most painful aspect of the entire disaster. It had been Curt who had insisted that Brian must choose, and then Brian had chosen  _ her _ . But perhaps Arthur had been right; it truly must have appeared to Brian as though he would be sharing Curt with Miss Fairfax, no matter how often Curt had assured him that he had no romantic feelings for her whatsoever, nor did she want any. To Brian, it must have looked as though Curt was the one being unreasonable.

Therefore it was his duty to apologise. They had been more than lovers, after all; they had been the dearest of friends as well. Surely it would hurt even more to sacrifice their friendship on top of losing their romance. But if he was the offending party, then he must also be the party to seek reconciliation.

After Curt had been at the party perhaps as much as half an hour, Miss Bates finally ran out of breath, and Mrs. Weston drew her away to look at some particularly lovely flowers by the pond. Now that there was a chance for a proper conversation, Curt made up his mind and turned to speak to Miss Woodhouse. “May I ask you for a terrible favour?” he asked.

“What sort of terrible favour?” she replied, with laugh.

“I want to speak to Brian, but he will never permit me to approach him. Could you use your friendship with Miss Smith to get him engaged in conversation so that he will not notice as I draw near?” Curt did his best to smile. “I promise I have no intention to cause an argument. I only want to talk. To apologise,” he added, when Miss Woodhouse did not immediately seem inclined to agree.

She hesitated a bit longer—teasingly, as if her mind had long been made up to assist him—then agreed and proposed a simple plan to accomplish the goal. Miss Woodhouse was soon able to determine that Brian and Miss Smith had set off towards the trellis where he had had Miss Smith’s portrait painted not long after Curt left town. (Pity Arthur had not learned of that incident to inform Curt of it! That would have at least given him some warning of just how dire things would soon get.)

Curt waited a few minutes after Miss Woodhouse set off towards the trellis before following her. Brian and Miss Smith were standing underneath the trellis, and Miss Woodhouse just outside it; the foliage blocked Curt’s approach neatly, so he was able to approach quite directly from the side of the trellis, and Brian had no hope of seeing him until Curt was directly at Miss Woodhouse’s side.

As soon as Brian saw him, he turned to go without a word, but Curt reached out and took hold of his wrist, stopping him in place. “Please, at least let me say what I must before you go,” Curt begged.

“You have nothing to say that I want to hear,” Brian insisted without even looking at him.

“You do not know that.” Or at least Curt hoped that Brian  _ did _ want to hear what Curt was going to say.

Brian shook Curt’s hand away from his wrist, but did not leave, aiming a defiant look right into his eyes with a mistrust that made Curt’s heart ache. “Surprise me, then.”

“I wanted to apologise,” Curt explained. “I judged Miss Smith too hastily, and most wrongly, and I should never have been selfish enough to ask you to set aside your feelings for her for my sake. Please do not let this bitter mistake of mine put an end to our friendship. I could not stand losing you completely.”

Though he could not swear it was not the dancing shadows under the trellis, Curt  _ thought  _ he saw a softening of the look in Brian’s eyes, but it did not stop Brian from leaving without a word. Miss Smith smiled uncomfortably at Curt after Brian was gone from sight. “I shall speak to him after he calms down,” she said. “I do not wish to be the instrument that ended such a happy friendship.” Then she smiled. “I am sure Brian would never be so upset unless he still valued you highly. I have every hope that he will come around eventually.” Then she hurried off after Brian.

“She is already calling him ‘Brian’?” Curt muttered, appalled. Had she even accepted his proposal yet?

“Evidently,” Miss Woodhouse agreed, then laughed. “Do you ever call Miss Fairfax ‘Jane’?”

“Not even in private,” Curt replied, shaking his head. “It is not an honour to be taken lightly.” And given everything, he was in no hurry to have that honour accorded to him. Her assailant had thought of her as little more than a servant, and thus had probably called her ‘Jane’ without any thought of how wrong it was to do so.

Miss Woodhouse seemed to find that quite amusing, but thankfully did not say another word about it. Instead, she suggested that they take a turn through the gardens to greet every one that Curt had missed due to his late arrival, lest anyone mistakenly think he was refusing to attend the party. Given that Miss Woodhouse now knew he was engaged to marry Miss Fairfax, Curt was surprised she wanted to be seen with him in such a suggestive capacity, but it guarded him from most of the reproaches to which he might ordinarily be susceptible in this situation, so he acquiesced without a second thought.

For the most part, Curt found few surprises among the other guests. Many of the lower order of Highbury society were present—the Coles and the Coxes, even the Fords—people of the sort with whom Brian would not normally associate in any capacity, but Curt had known that would be the case before he arrived. He was surprised (and pleased) to learn that both of the Eltons were absent, having sent the message that they had been tired out by this morning’s strawberry picking expedition and had no strength left for another party so soon. Miss Woodhouse had been surprised by that message, as she had thought Mr. Knightley had postponed it so as not to interfere with this party. More surprising still was seeing that Mrs. Goddard, all of the teachers from her school, the other parlour-boarders and even a few of the oldest students were present. Curt suggested to Miss Woodhouse that they wanted to see for themselves the presumed moral degradation of their former schoolmate—or at least to avail themselves of the fineries being served by her baronial beau.

At any event, the remainder of the afternoon passed by without any further incident, occupied by many cheerful conversations with Miss Woodhouse and various of her other friends and acquaintances. With so many guests, dinner was being served in the adjoining parlours, upon much larger tables than Curt had ever seen at Colfax. Brian must have had them brought in from London specially for the event at an expense that Curt could only guess at. Before the food was served, Brian stood between the parlours and called for all his guests’ attention.

“I believe some of you have come under some misunderstanding about our purposes this evening,” Brian announced. “We are not gathering to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve, though it is an element to the party. No, to-night we celebrate Miss Amanda Smith, who was born on this day eighteen years ago,” he said, gesturing her over to stand by his side, which she did with a scarlet face. “And we should like to take this opportunity to inform you all that Miss Smith has accepted my proposal of marriage, and we shall be wed this autumn.”

For a moment, a stunned silence filled the rooms. Most of the Highbury residents seemed entirely unsure what to think of this development in the scandalous saga of Lord Slade and Miss Smith. It was—unsurprisingly—Miss Smith’s allies who began the appropriate response of friendly applause: Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley first, in near perfect unison, soon followed by Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, Mr. William Cox and Curt’s father and step-mother. Upon seeing Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley leading the way, the rest of Highbury followed, as was their wont where those two were concerned, and soon everyone was applauding, with the exception of a sour-faced Mrs. Goddard. Even the other teachers were applauding, and the students looked so ecstatic that one or two of them appeared to be crying with happiness. Curt, too, had joined in the applause, but he could not force himself to  _ mean _ it. As far as he was concerned, Miss Smith would never be good enough for Brian. But if she was what Brian wanted…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The claim that any laws that would have forbidden a marriage between a baron and a girl of common (and illegitimate) birth had already been stricken from the books is probably the most absurd thing in this entire fic, as such laws were probably only struck down towards the end of the 19th century, if not the beginning of the 20th century. (Certainly they were gone by the 1930s, but that's as far as I know on the subject.)
> 
> And yeah, I just sort of tucked the romance between Mr. Knightley and Emma into the ending sequence here because, well...it was hardly relevant to the story I was trying to tell, and it's not as though I could have anything to say about it that was better or more insightful than what was in the original novel! (In fact, I actually rather ruined it, because I completely removed all the events that led Emma to finally gain some self-perspective and allow her a little character growth. And yet leaving their love out entirely would have felt even more wrong. Though of course Amanda is completely blind to Emma's many character flaws, because she's still kind of in love with her. Because it's impossible to read the novel and not ship Emma/Harriet at least a little bit.)


	14. Chapter 14

Thankfully, heavy clouds had rolled in not long after sunset, and the stargazing portion of the party had been cancelled, so Mr. and Mrs. Perry came home straight after the ball was over, thus relieving Arthur of the tedious duty of watching over their children. It seemed especially egregious in view of Mrs. Perry’s account of who had been at the party, as it seemed that Arthur would actually have been allowed—assuming Lord Slade was not holding a grudge against Arthur for first informing Curt of his role in Miss Smith’s exit from Mrs. Goddard’s school and then taking some small fraction of his place in Curt’s life—and the children could have been left with the servants, while Arthur attended the party himself. Though he would have preferred to have gone to Randalls with Curt while all the town was otherwise engaged…

Still, all that mattered now was that Arthur was free to go to bed and get some sleep, so that he could at least dream of having free and unfettered access to Curt where no one could ever find them and punish them for their acting on their desires. With that thought in mind, he had been quite eager for sleep’s embrace, and was entirely changed into his night-shirt by the time Mr. Perry came to the door of his room.

“Good God, what have you to be so tired about?” he demanded, looking at the state Arthur was in. “You are not the one who had to traipse about Colfax’s gardens half the afternoon.”

Arthur’s mind was filled with bitterness at the reproach, considering he had been given the far more tiring duty of running after Mr. Perry’s children half the day, attempting to make them obey some form of civilised rule. “I am sorry, sir. Did you need something?”

“A messenger just came to the door with this letter for you,” Mr. Perry said, holding out an envelope towards Arthur with an annoyed look on his face.

The letter was addressed to Arthur, with “Mr. & Mrs. Stuart, Lancashire” written as the identity of the sender. Was Mr. Perry actually believing that? Aside from the impossibility of Arthur’s father ever wishing to have anything to do with him ever again (not to mention Curt’s very delicate handwriting!) there was the absurdity that his parents would have put his father’s first name on it (otherwise what was there to make it clear that it was not from his brother or an uncle?) and certainly would have included the name of their town!

Arthur was so overcome by his perplexity that he nearly forgot to thank Mr. Perry for bringing him the letter and to apologise for the inconvenience before shutting the door again so he could read the mysterious missive. In the simplest and yet most indirect language possible, Curt used the letter to insist that he was “quite desperate for companionship” and to beg Arthur to meet him immediately in their “special spot.” Arthur could not imagine any possible way that it could be a good idea—especially when so many of Highbury’s residents would still be out on the streets on their return journeys from the party at Colfax—but he did not hesitate, and was quickly dressed again, hiding the letter in his pocket where none could accidentally stumble across it.

Unfortunately, Mr. Perry was still downstairs in the shop. “I need to take some time to myself to think about what was in that letter,” Arthur explained to him uncomfortably. “Thought going walking might help me.”

“All right, just be careful. Those gipsies might still be nearby.”

“As I haven’t a penny to my name, I cannot see that it would matter if they were,” Arthur sighed as he was leaving the shop.

He did not get far before he realised he was going to need a lantern and had to return sheepishly to the shop to fetch one. Mr. Perry laughed at him, but did not try to prevent him leaving with the lantern. For the duration of the walk to Randalls, Arthur tried to order his thoughts. As much as he longed for another sweet tryst with Curt, what was the point of it? There was very little they even  _ could _ do inside a hole in a hedge row; no matter how private it appeared to be, they could be easily overheard if they made even the slightest loud noise, and there might be any number of animals—and insects!—that would set upon them there.

The lack of true privacy did not seem to bother Curt in the least. As soon as Arthur was safely inside their little hidden nest, Curt expressed his delight at Arthur’s “foresight” in bringing along a lantern “so I can see the beautiful expressions on your face,” even as he was taking the lantern away and setting it in one corner of the hole, its light aimed out at the two of them.

Of course, sight was hardly necessary as Curt then pulled Arthur close and began kissing him with an overwhelming intensity that robbed Arthur of any ability to think, leaving him only with pure animal responses, putting his own arms around Curt’s body and matching the passion of his kisses eagerly. They had not been kissing nearly long enough by Arthur’s reckoning when Curt stopped suddenly and suggested a change of position. Arthur had no opportunity to ask before Curt was manoeuvring him—tripping him, almost—into a position lying flat on his back on the filthy ground, with Curt lowering himself above him and resuming their kisses in the new prone situation. It might have been more pleasant for Curt, but Arthur had several sticks pressing up against his back, and he could just  _ feel _ the mud making its way into his hair, which rather robbed the experience of much of its pleasure.

Still, when one of Curt’s hands began caressing Arthur’s body as they kissed, stroking places no man should ever be touched in public (not that they were in public, as such), the excitement quickly grew to a point where Arthur no longer cared about or even noticed the sticks and the mud. However, when Curt started trying to unbutton Arthur’s trousers, fear began to encroach upon the pleasure, quickly overwhelming it, and Arthur pulled out of the kiss to beg off anything more intimate than kissing.

“Please, you have no idea how much I need this right now,” Curt said, an urgent whisper in Arthur’s ear. “That party was the most abject form of torture. I had to sit there and pretend to be glad that Brian was marrying that woman. To pretend I was not being robbed of the most intimate lover. That being snubbed by him meant very little.” Curt’s teeth suddenly closed lightly around Arthur’s earlobe, nipping and sucking at it gently. “I need you to prove to me that my life is not already over…” he whispered upon briefly releasing it. “That you will take his place—fill the position better than he ever did…”

Arthur’s eyes slid shut in pleasure as Curt resumed his ministrations to Arthur’s earlobe. What could he possibly say? How could he ever allow a simple and possibly absurd fear of discovery (who would be lingering in the streets at this time of night?) to interfere with such a warm plea for his love? Arthur slipped his arms around Curt again, the fingers on one hand tangling in his hair.

It was not long before Curt left off any attention to Arthur’s ear, and returned to kissing his lips. And soon enough he was once again attempting to unbutton Arthur’s trousers, but this time Arthur did nothing to stop him. Once Arthur’s trousers were unbuttoned, Curt unbuttoned his own trousers, leading to a new kind of excitement inside Arthur. Was this really going to happen? Despite the mud, the insects, the lack of walls and locked doors?

Even as much as he feared discovery, Arthur’s thrill at the notion of finally taking his love for Curt to the ultimate climax superseded it to the point of reducing his fear to abject nothingness.

Curt stopped kissing him, and pulled back a bit, moving up into a kneeling position. “It will probably be easiest if you get on your hands and knees,” he said.

“Mrs. Perry will kill me if I ruin the knees of my trousers,” Arthur said as he sat up. She was the one who would have to supervise their repair or replacement, after all.

But Curt only laughed. “That is quite all right; you will not be wearing them at all.”

Arthur’s whole face went hot, though he was not quite sure if it was embarrassment, shame or excitement. But that heat made him all the more aware of it when a light drizzle began as he was struggling to remove his trousers. Arthur hesitated at the feeling of the rain on his skin, but Curt insisted that there wouldn’t be any proper rain, adding the urgent imperative to “Hurry and get your trousers off before I go mad with desire!”

A clap of thunder prevented any further claims that it would not rain. Curt attempted to convince him that they could follow through before the storm was upon them, but the rain began pouring from the sky before he could finish the thought. And yet Curt was laughing as he righted his trousers.

“Next time,” he promised. “I’ll make you mine next time.”

“I hope so,” Arthur agreed as he righted his own clothing. “All this waiting is intolerable.” He accepted Curt’s hand to help him back to his feet. “Maybe I could take a few days off and take a room at an inn in Richmond…”

“That is a marvellous idea!” Curt agreed, kissing him passionately. “I will be back in Richmond to-morrow—or perhaps I should call it to-day by this hour of the night—and I know my aunt will not let me leave again for at least a week. But she is not quite such a tyrant that I could not manage to leave the house for a few hours and see you at the inn.”

Arthur picked up the (now extinguished) lantern, then gave Curt one last kiss. “Mr. Perry actually seems to think that letter came from my father. I have no doubt that I can use that as an excuse to go to Richmond for a few days.”

“I shall be counting the minutes until you arrive,” Curt assured him, before they went their separate ways through the driving rain.

By the time Arthur got back to Mr. Perry’s shop, he was soaked through, but he was also thoroughly elated.

*******

The only bad thing about having at last accepted Brian’s proposal, as far as Amanda could tell, was that he no longer came to Hartfield punctually at the same hour every day. He had come both of the last two days, yes, but the day after the party he arrived quite early in the morning, and left after only a very brief visit, while yesterday he had not arrived until some two hours after luncheon was over. He explained that it was because he had so much correspondence to deal with now in preparation for the wedding—many letters had to be written not only to his steward, but he had to personally ask the archbishop to officiate (to think she was going to be married by an archbishop!), and he had important relations who held various other titles and must be carefully flattered and cajoled before they could be informed of the wedding or asked to attend—that his life could no longer be as orderly as it had been before. Also—and Amanda suspected this was the real reason—he was suddenly filled with inspiration for the final canto of  _ Childe Maxwell _ and was spending much longer in his morning writing sessions than he had been prior to the settling of the engagement.

Consequently, Amanda and Emma had spent much more of the past two days in chat and other simple amusements. (They had both opted not to accompany the Eltons to the pic-nic on Box Hill, which ended up being only the Eltons, Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, as Mr. Curt Wild had left for Richmond first thing on the morning after the party, and Mr. Knightley had not attended either, according to Miss Bates.) But there was always a new uneasiness in Emma’s behaviour, and Amanda suspected it had to do with the fact that Mr. Knightley had not come by for a visit since his confession in the garden. Amanda could not stand to see her friend in such a miserable state, so she made up her mind to change the topic of conversation at once that she might make some attempt, however feeble, to ease Emma’s mind. Emma was relating the rather droll news that Mr. Perry’s apprentice (who really ought to have known better!) had managed to catch a cold during that sudden rainstorm after the party at Colfax and was now laid up in bed. That did not seem terribly important (as he was young and generally quite healthy and said to already be on the mend), Amanda interrupted the story to ask “Have you yet figured what your answer to Mr. Knightley will be?”

Emma twitched slightly at the question. “It is not so simple as merely an answer,” she said, with a sigh. “I have spent so much time thinking about it that I have not been able to sleep the past two nights, and I think…I think I  _ do _ love him—no, I am sure that I do—but what purpose is there in that? I cannot possibly marry him.”

“Why ever not?” Amanda asked, though it seemed to her there was a larger question to be asked, of why marriage must be the only acceptable state for requited love. That did not seem a fruitful question to ask.

“How could I ever leave my father alone? It is impossible. He would not survive it.” She shook her head. “And my father would never be willing to move from Hartfield to Donwell Abbey. Even if he would be, I do not know that his health would permit it. The abbey is much more draughty than this cosy house.” Emma sighed. “I know I must give Mr. Knightley his answer, but I dread the thought that a proposal of marriage is likely to follow hard upon my answer.”

“Ah…I wish I knew what to say to help you with such a conundrum.”

“I have been over so many possibilities in my head over the last two days, and none of them have been acceptable.” Emma frowned. “If he does ask me to marry him, all that we can have is an engagement while my father lives.”

“But your father might live twenty years or more!” Amanda objected.

“I certainly hope he shall,” Emma replied almost crossly, “but that does not change that I cannot abandon him.”

While Amanda was trying desperately to think of some method by which Emma’s situation could be remedied, a visitor arrived to Hartfield. But it was not Brian; it was Mrs. Weston who arrived, looking rather sombre.

“Is anything the matter?” Emma asked, after embracing her former tutor.

“We just had an express from Richmond,” Mrs. Weston said, her voice heavy.

“Surely nothing has happened to Curt Wild?” Emma asked, sounding worried.

“No, the message was sent by him, and I am glad to say that he at least is well. But his aunt suffered a dreadful attack two days ago, and after much suffering has at length passed away.”

“How dreadful! Poor Mrs. Wild!” Emma exclaimed.

“It is quite terrible indeed,” Mrs. Weston replied. “Naturally, this will prevent Curt from returning to Highbury for some time to come, so I fear we will not see him again this year. But I hope he has formed enough attachment to the people and the town that he will return sometime next year to visit us all.”

As the two of them continued to discuss the sad situation of Mrs. Wild’s passing, Amanda reflected that apparently Mrs. Weston had not been informed of her step-son’s secret engagement (or not informed that she and Emma knew about it), as there was no mention of Miss Fairfax in all their conversation. What impact would this have on that poor, unfortunate soul, Amanda wondered. At least Miss Fairfax was now well settled—in Mrs. Elton’s eyes—as “intended” for a position as governess with the London Knightleys, so she had a safe haven to fall back upon if this untimely death made her eventual marriage to Mr. Curt Wild even more distant in the future than it already was.

*******

The harpy had been gone more than a week, and it had still been all but impossible to get a day to himself. Some things, he had had to explain to his uncle over and over again, simply could not be imparted in a letter. Out of duty, his first stop in Highbury had been at Randalls to speak to his father and let him know how things currently stood. He barely needed to, of course: thanks to Mr. Knightley’s interference, his father already knew about the engagement with Miss Fairfax, but it still seemed the right thing to do.

His next stop was the Bates home, but lest he get drawn into a much longer visit than he had time for, Curt begged the maid to bring Miss Fairfax to the door, rather than he go up to visit her properly in the parlour. She was visibly annoyed when she came down the stairs. “I do apologise,” he said, with a weak smile, “but I do not have time for your aunt right now.”

“I heard about your own aunt from Mrs. Weston, so if you only came to inform me of that—”

“No, I assumed you had heard that much,” Curt assured her, taking her hand. “In his bereaved state, my uncle was much more willing to be persuaded. I have told him about our engagement, and he accepted it. There must be three months of deep mourning, but we can be married as early as November. If you are still willing, that is.” She seemed rather colder than usual. Did she prefer the idea of actually becoming governess for Mr. John Knightley’s children?

Miss Fairfax smiled warmly. “I am most gratified to hear it,” she said. “I had been afraid that…I am so glad.” She squeezed his hand. “What about my aunt and grandmother?” she asked. “We will not forget them, will we?”

“I doubt your grandmother could survive being transplanted to Yorkshire, if that is what you are asking,” Curt said, “but I long ago assumed that your aunt would end up living with us.” What else could an old maid—particularly one as intellectually feeble as Miss Bates—do but rely on her relations? “Fortunately, I am quite fond of her, so I have no objections to such an arrangement. As long as I have a few rooms she is not permitted to enter.” Constant prattle with no relief would drive him mad in short order.

“Could we send them some money after we are married? So they may live in more comfort?”

“Of course.” Curt’s uncle could send enough money to support fifteen ladies like the Bateses without even noticing it.

They spoke for a little while longer, but Curt was on a tight schedule—he needed to return to his uncle as quickly as possible—and needed to move on to his final Highbury destination. The destination both most frivolous and most important at the same time. There was not, strictly speaking, any need for what he was hoping to obtain at the apothecary, but Curt could not bear the idea of failing in that goal.

Curt was not sure if it was good fortune or bad that Mr. Perry was in the shop along with Arthur when he arrived. They both looked surprised to see him, of course, but only Arthur looked pleased. “Are you ill?” Mr. Perry asked.

“No, thank you,” Curt assured him. “I have come to speak to your apprentice.”

Mr. Perry waved his hand in assent as if his permission was somehow necessary for Arthur to hold a conversation. “You need something from me?” Arthur asked, an uncertain edge in his voice as though he was no longer certain precisely how society expected him to behave towards Curt.

“It is supposed to be a close secret, though I have few doubts that Miss Bates will make it known to half the county over night, but I have become engaged to marry Miss Fairfax,” Curt informed him loudly enough for Mr. Perry to hear every word just in case he was not purposefully listening to their conversation. (Though he most certainly was.) “And as I am sure you are aware, her health is quite frail, even in the southern climes to which she is accustomed. Once she moves north to join me at my uncle’s estate in Yorkshire, well, her health may well take a serious turn for the worse.” Curt attempted to produce the sort of light-hearted laugh that men used to dismiss the health of their wives. It felt even more wrong and strange to produce than it did to hear from others. “To that event, I thought it provident to hire her a personal physician of sorts, one who could live on the grounds and provide her with whatever physics are needed at the first hint of illness.”

Arthur smiled widely, clearly understanding Curt’s real aim, and loving it. “And you would hire a mere  _ boy _ ?” Mr. Perry asked, his voice dripping with appalled disdain. “There must be fully trained doctors in Yorkshire.”

“Of course there are,” Curt agreed, “but they are all old men.” And who would want to have sex with an old man? “If I hire a  _ young _ man, then he will be able to treat her consistently for her whole life, rather than having to hire on a series of old men who all die or retire. And as she already knows Arthur here, her retiring nature will not be offended by having to adjust to a stranger tending to her personal health.” Curt chuckled. “Besides, I am sure this young man would rather be nearer to his family; Lancashire is quite far from Surrey, but very near to Yorkshire.” That finally seemed to meet with some approval from Mr. Perry, so Curt turned his attention back to Arthur. “Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Will you entertain the prospect?”

“I would be overjoyed to accept the position,” Arthur assured him, provoking an extremely impolite snort from Mr. Perry, “and I am most honoured that you would trust me with such an important task.” A tight clenching of his fingers around Curt’s hand where Mr. Perry could not see—not to mention the warm desire in his eyes—proved that Arthur’s true thoughts were nowhere near as proper and polite as his words.

“It delights me to hear that,” Curt answered. “Miss Fairfax will be staying in Highbury until the Campbells return from Ireland at the end of August; you may wish to join her in London at that time, or wait and join us both in Yorkshire. That can be at your discretion—or perhaps your master’s, as there may be more he wants to teach you before you leave his care—so long as you are at Enscombe by the time of the wedding in November.”

Arthur nodded. “I rather doubt that the Campbells would want a strange house guest for several months, but I will think the matter over, since there are two months in which to do so. Either way, I can promise you that I will be in Yorkshire by November.”

“Glad to hear it,” Curt said, then leaned in close to Arthur’s ear, since Mr. Perry was no longer actively looking at them. “And after the wedding ceremony, you and I can have our own wedding night,” he whispered. Arthur’s face was both bright crimson and covered in a positive grin of delight when Curt moved his face back to a respectable distance away.

*******

_ Letter from Amanda Stoningham, Lady Slade, to Miss Emma Woodhouse _

My Dear Emma,

How I wish you could have been here yesterday! You and Mr. Knightley absolutely must promise to come visit us as soon as possible. I miss you terribly already, and I want to show you every thing. The gardens here are not as picturesque as those at Colfax, but they are fully twice the size, and have a permanent staff tending to them year-round.

Ah, but I was not writing about the gardens or even the house! I wanted to tell you about the ceremony! Forgive my brain rattling all over the place; I am still riding on such a cloud of elation that it is hard to think straight. Brian and I were married in the cathedral in town, with a massive reception at his manor afterwards. I believe there were more people in the great hall than there are in all of Highbury—twice over! The wedding itself was beautiful—I hope your wedding to Mr. Knightley will be every bit as beautiful, even if you will have to suffer having the ceremony performed by Mr. Elton—and the archbishop was very kind to me, even though he must have known what sort of birth I had.

Do you know, my father actually attended the ceremony? It turns out he is a mere merchant—though I suppose I would not have seen that as ‘mere’ a year ago!—and he is just wealthy enough that some of Brian’s society were vaguely willing to speak to him. Still, I am quite glad that Brian would not permit him to perform the role of “giving me away” in the ceremony. Even though he swore that Mrs. Goddard’s letter to him about my “improprieties” with Brian spoke of certainties, not assumptions, and mentioned only sending me away from Brian, not sending me to a London poorhouse, neither Brian nor I can fully forgive him for having done nothing to defend me, given the manner in which he conceived me.

Oh, but there is good news about those in attendance as well! You will never guess it—or maybe you will, being so very much smarter than I am—but Mr. Curt Wild actually attended the ceremony, and he looked quite pleasantly at every thing. I do believe he has fully forgiven Brian for having placed love for me above friendship with him. Brian has not entirely forgiven  him , but they have a mutual friend in Mr. Jack Fairy, who was working very hard to reconcile them to each other, so I think the day is not far off when they will be proper friends again. (Speaking of Mr. Fairy, you really must meet him and his wife, Emma dear! His wife is such a charming lady, and so intelligent and well-spoken! I know the two of you would be fast friends.)

Right now, Brian is making the final arrangements before we depart on our wedding trip. He wants to take me to see all of the sights on the continent that he saw on his earlier travels, so that I may “catch up” to him and know precisely what he means when he speaks of some great sight or the atmosphere of one of the fine foreign cities in which he has resided. (He is even trying to teach me a few languages so that I will be able to speak with the natives, but I hope they will not all be as difficult as French, or I shall stand no chance of success!) I have decided to bring along two notebooks on our trip. In one, I shall keep a diary recording everything that happens, so that I may share our adventures with you upon our return. (Brian has promised that we will stop in Highbury for at least a week when we return to England.) In the other, I am going to take up sketching, and will attempt to create a visual record of what I see. I am sure my skills will never match up to yours, but I hope I will at least be able to create the impression of the sights for you to see.

But you must write at once and tell me how has every thing happened in Highbury since I left! We will be in Paris for two weeks before we move on, so you may send the letters to us in care of the British Ambassador there. Has Mr. Knightley already begun the process of moving into Hartfield (such a clever idea of his to do so!) or will that not begin until closer to the wedding? Oh, I do wish I could be there for your wedding, but Brian says we will not be back in England for a year or more. Have you yet grown accustomed to addressing Mr. Knightley by his Christian name? Or perhaps I should ask if you have even  started to do so?

I do miss Highbury, and all the people in it. No, not  all the people. But I miss you and your father and all our friends. I know Miss Fairfax left town very soon after I did, but I suppose you have had no news about her from London. I hope she is all right, but since Mr. Perry’s apprentice went with her, at least she has a protector of sorts for situations when Col. Campbell cannot be with her. Surely Mr. Curt Wild must have informed the young man of what poor Miss Fairfax suffered in Weymouth last fall. I hope she will find proper happiness in Enscombe at last.

I know I have no need to hope for your own happiness, as it is guaranteed that Mr. Knightley will never allow you to be unhappy, but I do have every wish that your happiness will be so great as to be true and unfettered joy such as I feel, finally being joined in marriage to the man I adore.

With all my love,

Your own Amanda


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